


Sparrow Song

by AmandaHuffleduck



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Loki is a dick, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 17:15:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmandaHuffleduck/pseuds/AmandaHuffleduck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Post movie) Loki's been carted off to Asgard. What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: none of it's mine.  
> Disclaimer: based purely on the Marvel movies. Will probably bear sod-all relation to the Norse Pantheon.
> 
> Warning: this will be updated sporadically at best.
> 
> Assumptions: so many assumptions.

" _Natasha! Oh god, he's here. Loki's here...!_ "  


The vibration of Black Widow's phone had snapped her out of sleep and she was on her feet and moving as soon as she recognised Clint's voice.

"Where are you?" she whispered urgently, already out of her apartment, pistol in hand. "Clint?"  
" _Tasha! Nonono..._ " The despair in his voice froze her blood but it was the God of Mischief's delighted, malicious laugh she could hear in the background that spurred her forward.  
"Clint, hold on!" She sprinted down the corridor to her friend's apartment, his last known location.

  


Hawkeye, too, snapped out of sleep the moment his bedroom door opened. A scant second later he was sitting up, blinking in the sudden light.

"Nat...?"  
"Are you all right?" She sounded rough, nearly panicky. "I..." she blinked then, and looked squarely at him, slowly lowering her weapon. "Did you just call me?"  
Clint shook his head.  
"Only if it was in my sleep."

Natasha stepped in to the room, focused now and intent. She thumbed the safety on her pistol before tucking it in to the waistband of her panties. Ever sharp, Hawkeye noticed her phone tucked in to the other side. She'd certainly been in a hurry...

"Phone." She demanded, holding out her hand.

Clint pulled his mobile from beneath his pillow and passed it over. Natasha was frowning as she flicked through the menus: of course she knew his password, same as he knew hers.

"The last call you made was yesterday morning to the armoury?"  
He nodded, accepting his phone back but watching his friend closely. Natasha was now examining her own mobile. Her frown deepened and then she swore.  
"Last call I received was from Stark, this afternoon, being an idiot."  
"What's going on?"  
"I just had a call from you, saying... saying Loki was there." She sighed, massaging her forehead. "Must've been dreaming."  
Clint nodded, pulling back his bed sheets. He and Nat were both subject to nightmares at times, he knew what would help.  
"Stay?"  
Black Widow sighed again and nodded, not so much relaxing as slumping. Then she focused on what he was wearing, her gaze slipping down his bare chest to...  
"Iron Man boxers? Seriously?"  
"100% organic cotton. Very comfortable." Clint smirked. "You don't have any? Tony was handing them out to everybody."  
"I must have been busy doing something worthwhile that day." She said with only the barest hint of an eye roll.

Natasha switched off the bedroom light then padded over to Clint's bed in the dark. He'd pushed over pillows for her, knew when the pistol and phone were tucked away beneath them. She lay down, her back to him, facing the door. Clint pulled the sheets up to their shoulders and moved close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her hair.

  


It wasn't a restful night for either of them. Natasha was unable to relax and her restlessness kept Clint from anything deeper than dozing. By the time dawn dragged around they'd both realised there was no more point trying to sleep. By common, unspoken consent, they headed to the gym – via Natasha's room so she could find something a little more practical to wear – then spent a couple of hours engaged in brutal sparring.  
It worked, to an extent, to clear the fuzziness and unease, enough so that Steve apparently didn't notice anything amiss when he came in for his own workout...

  


A week on and it was a different story.

" _Nat_..."  
"I can handle it." Black Widow snapped through clenched teeth.  
"For how much longer?" Clint snapped back, worried for his friend and frustrated at his inability to help.

The dreams had continued to plague Nat, night after night. They were worse when he wasn't there with her but sharing a bed meant they were both sleep deprived and irritable. The cracks in the facade of Natasha's public persona were clear to him, and becoming wide enough that even Stark was aware through his self-absorption that something was up.  
"Come on, at least talk to Bruce, he's discreet."

And this was a large part of the problem. Natasha detested being weak, detested more having any weakness revealed. She trusted Clint with the personal stuff, but that was about it. She was wavering though, Hawkeye sensed; Natasha knew she was perilously close to becoming a liability for the team.

"Please, Nat, just talk to Bruce."  
" _Fine._ "  
"Thank you."

Clint hugged her, wrapped himself around her, a full-body hug that she didn't respond to, remaining stiff and distant. The fine tremors shaking through her muscles were worrying.

  


Clint had known talking to Bruce would be a good idea.

"Do you think there's a chance this is being imposed on you?"  
"What?" Natasha had stiffened.  
"That these dreams aren't coming from your subconscious." the scientist was hesitant. "But from an external source?"  
"Someone's making me dream?" Black Widow looked sceptical. "How?"  
"Magic and monsters." Clint ground out. " _Loki_."  
"Thor took him back to Asgard – " Bruce began.  
"I don't think we can assume _anything_ about that prick."  
"Wait." Natasha frowned. "We're jumping to conclusions. This may not have anything to do with him."  
"Of course it does! Who else could it be?"  
"That's hardly a definitive – " Bruce began, but subsided when Clint gave him a _look_.  
Natasha glared in turn at Clint but reluctantly gave ground.  
"All right, if it is Loki, why is he targeting me?"  
"You tricked him." Hawkeye's grin was sharp and unpleasant. "You tricked the trickster. Of course he's gonna want to slap you down. He's probably been thinkin' up ways to get you back."  
Bruce shrugged apologetically.  
"It does make sense, Natasha."  
She shook her head.  
"No. Too easy a conclusion." She frowned again. "We need to talk to Thor. Is he on-planet...?"

  


He was, as it happened.

"Greetings, my friends!" The God of Thunder's smile was expansive over the video link.  
"Hey, big guy, good to see you." Clint grinned in response. "Just a question. Is your brother still on Asgard?"  
"To my knowledge."  
"But you'd know, right, if he wasn't?"  
Thor frowned.  
"Has there been trouble?"  
"We're not sure." Natasha cut in before Clint could get started.

Thor's expression darkened further as he listened to her precise, unemotional recount of the past several days.

"It... does sound like something he would do. I will investigate. Be well, my friends, I'll contact you shortly." He nodded, a courteous inclination of his head, then the link closed. 

They'd dispersed, not knowing how long it would be before they heard from Thor again: Bruce back to his lab; Clint and Natasha, to see what they could scrounge up for breakfast.  
They were on the point of finishing up the toast and eggs and coffee when JARVIS spoke. 

"Agent Barton, Agent Romanoff. Thor is approaching the Tower."  
Clint and Natasha exchanged a glance.  
"That doesn't bode well." Natasha muttered, a sentiment echoed by Bruce a few seconds later when he hurried in. They turned to the windows, watching their team mate land solidly on the platform.

"It's not good news, I'm afraid." Thor said without preamble, striding towards them.  
"What isn't?" Tony had materialized behind them, wiping oil-stained hands on his t-shirt. He lifted an eyebrow at their surprise. "JARVIS told me we had a visitor." He nodded at the god. "Hey, Blondie. What's not good news?"  
Thor glanced at Natasha, tacitly gaining her permission before speaking.  
"My brother is not where he is supposed to be, and no one can say for sure when he left."  
" _What happened_?" Hawkeye demanded.  
"He was under guard, but..." Thor almost looked betrayed. "At some point he created a simulacrum of himself and escaped."  
"And your people didn't think to keep a closer check on someone who can make illusionary copies of himself?"  
Clint's disgust, he could privately acknowledge, was at least partially fuelled by fear – Loki, and what he could do, still haunted him – but that didn't stop him wanting to rage about the situation.  
"The All-Father had bound his power – "  
"Yeah, because that'd fix _everything_."  
"I warn you, do _not_ be disrespectful of my father – !"  
" _Enough_!" Natasha's command cracked out like a gunshot. "Thor. If Loki's behind these dreams, what is his purpose? How do I stop him?"  
Thor visibly mastered his anger, refraining from snarling at Clint.  
"It is only yourself that has been affected, Natasha?"  
She nodded, arms folded across her chest.  
"Just me." 

The god of Thunder paused to think, then his lips quirked up in to a humourless smile.

"My brother does not attack directly if he can help it: he will approach slantwise." Thor's gaze flicked between the spy and the marksman. "I would wager this is about Hawkeye."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"My brother does not attack directly if he can help it: he will approach slantwise." Thor's gaze flicked between the spy and the marksman. "I would wager this is about Hawkeye..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra tags/warnings etc. added as appropriate.

Natasha quirked an eyebrow at Clint.  
" _Fight or fuck_." She murmured, then immediately wished she hadn't. The appalling vulnerability that flashed across his eyes made her wince. 

"But why Black Widow?" Stark was challenging Thor.  
"Because Natasha is his friend." Thor said as if it was obvious.   
"We're _all_ Hawkeye's friends - "  
"But not as she is." Thor was clearly trying to be patient. "Hawkeye and Black Widow are warrior kin, blood bound."  
"They're each others' weakness." Bruce interjected thoughtfully.  
"Aye, and their strength." Thor nodded, pleased that finally someone understood.  
Stark looked insulted.  
"So messing with anyone else of us wouldn't have the same effect?"  
"Yes." Thor said simply. "Do not take offence, Tony, but you are not the centre of everyone's world."  
"I think we should get Cap in on this." Natasha stepped in before Stark could respond and escalate. "Clint?"  
Hawkeye nodded curtly, already emotionally winding in on himself – Black Widow could see – layering the defences.  
"But no one else. Especially no one from S.H.I.E.L.D."  
"What does – could – Loki want with you?" Tony was looking at Clint like he was an engineering schematic, like there was a glitch there he couldn't quite nail down.  
"How the hell do I know? I don't know what the fuck's going on in his head!"  
"Don't you?"

Tony was beginning to push and Natasha subtly shifted on her feet, ready to pull Clint back because he would hurt Stark if he continued to goad him. Hawkeye was downright telegraphing his intentions; was Stark really that combat blind or did he not care? Even Bruce was watchful, unconsciously rubbing his hands together as his gaze flicked back and forth between them. Then Thor came to the rescue, like the big damn Hero he was. 

"I doubt any could truly divine my brother's mind." The Asgardian looked uncomfortable, however. "Hawkeye, may I speak privately with you?"

  


Out on the deck, high above the city, the morning air was crisp and fresh. Clint's expression was unreadable as he waited for Thor to begin. 

"I will speak plainly, friend Hawkeye." Then he paused, still clearly uneasy. Clint's eyebrow twitched upwards but he remained silent. "Truly, I cannot say I know Loki's intention in this but I have... suspicions." Again he paused before visibly gathering his resolve. Clint would've found his teammate's awkwardness amusing, if he hadn't already kinda guessed where this was going.  
"It may be that my brother is trying to bring you back to his side as his bondsman but it may also be that he has set upon you as a sexual partner." His concern was evident as he studied Clint's face. "I have observed the mix of feelings Midgardians have towards intimacy between men, but I would not have you believe I would think less of you if 'twere – "   
"He's attacking Nat to weaken me?"   
Thor could almost have been said to be grateful for the change in topic.   
"To weaken and isolate you, aye, so that you may be more receptive to his... plans."  


Clint's eyes narrowed: he knew this already, had understood – viscerally – the moment Natasha had echoed his own words back at him. _Fuck or fight_. 

He stabbed a finger at the Asgardian's broad chest.  
"You tell that psychotic son of a bitch that if he wants anything from me he goddamn comes to _me_. He leaves my friends, everyone else, out of this!"

Not giving Thor a chance to respond, not wanting to hear anything else about this, Hawkeye stalked to the edge of the platform and swung himself over the rim...

  


"JARVIS, are you – "  
"Don't even think of recording that conversation." That had come out a lot sharper than Natasha had intended, betraying her anxiety.  
 _"Fine_." Stark sighed, a put-upon sound. 

They watched the dumbshow of Thor and Clint's interaction in silence until...  
"I hate it when he does that." Bruce observed, a catch in his voice. Natasha shrugged.  
"There's plenty of handholds." 

"Am I missing something?" Captain America arrived in time to see Hawkeye disappear over the edge of the platform. "JARVIS asked me to come up." He hadn't changed from his work-out gear, there was a sheen of sweat on his face, a hand towel slung around his neck. "Thor's here?"  
"Yeah, he's our advisor on trickster gods." Tony waved a hand dismissively. "You may have missed the memo."

Steve refrained from rolling his eyes – Stark did seem to take an unholy delight in trying to confuse him – and turned instead to Bruce and Natasha for this to start making sense.  
Black Widow was disinclined to speak but with a bare nod she gave Bruce permission to bring the Captain up to date. 

"I'm sorry, Natasha." Steve was sombre in apology. "I had noticed you weren't yourself but I didn't know whether to say anything..."  
"No. Thank you for your discretion." Widow gave him a small smile. "I don't know that I would've been gracious if you'd mentioned it."

Thor, who'd remained outside, staring meditatively in to the distance, stepped back in to the Penthouse. He greeted Captain America with a subdued smile.

"You are aware of the situation?"  
Steve nodded.  
"As much as any of us are." It was an invitation to the god of thunder to tell them more.  
Stark, unsurprisingly, was less subtle.  
"So, what does your brother want with our hawk?"  
Thor shot him a reproving look.  
"This is Hawkeye's business, he will tell you himself if he so desires."  
"What can we do?" Steve was all business now: Natasha could practically see him begin to strategize.  
" _We_ do nothing, Cap." She said firmly. "We follow Clint's lead in this. If he wants help he'll ask."  
"And if he doesn't?"  
"I'll make him."  


Hawkeye, having moved on from brooding, was now _seething_. 

It wasn't hard to get to the top of Stark Tower, especially not if you snuck back inside and used the stairs.  
He'd been up here for a couple of hours now, staring out over the city without actually seeing anything. Brooding, at first, over his inability to shake his fear - fear of what that cut-snake bastard was capable of – but now seething at Loki for making him feel so damn helpless. 

He'd been trained to deal with threats in a rational manner – identify, assess, neutralize – and for the most part that was his standard MO but his gut response this time was to fling himself at the threat, screaming. He wanted to rend with his bare hands, to tear and stamp, to grind and grind and grind until it was all gone, wisps on the wind, dispersed in to nothing. A total fantasy, of course because what, ultimately, could he do? 

/  


"Agent Barton." That voice, smooth-as-silk smarm, made him want to shiver in revulsion. He clamped down on the reaction. "You have a message for me, I believe?"

Clint turned slowly, projecting an arrogant confidence he certainly didn't feel. He made himself look directly Loki, held the son of a bitch's gaze without flinching, kept his arms loose at his sides and not crossed tightly over his chest as instinct demanded.  
"I want you to leave me and mine alone."  
Loki sauntered forward a step or two: Clint held his ground.  
"Oh, but I'm not done with you, Agent Barton."   
"Then deal with me. Just me."  
"You're offering yourself?" The trickster seemed genuinely amused.  
"If you wanna put it that way. You want something from me, let's get it out of the way, once, then you fuck off and leave me alone."  
"What if I want more?" The voice was beguiling now, dropping on that last word, and Loki angled his head so he was gazing at Clint through his long, dark eyelashes. The shit-eating superior smile, though, ruined the effect and allowed Hawkeye to maintain his rock-hard focus.  
"If you want more then you have to make me see the value of it."  
Loki straightened to his full height, definitely amused now.  
"You want me to _woo_ you, Agent Barton?"   
"No, frankly I want to see you dead, but that's what I'm offering. Do whatever you want with me, once, or try and change my mind. Without tricks, without magic. Consider it a challenge."  
"What if I take you up on your 'one time' offer but decide to come back for more?"  
"Then you will truly be shown to have no honour."

It'd been a spur of the moment thing, the words finding their way in to Clint's mouth almost without his volition, but surprisingly they'd had some effect on the Trickster. Loki glared at him, teeth bared, eyes narrowed, tension in every line of his body. Then he'd _snarled_ and... vanished. Clint's legs didn't quite collapse out from under him but it was close. _Now what?_

  


He'd gone back to the tower but kept to himself in his quarters for the rest of the day. No one bothered him and he suspected Natasha was standing guard – if not actually in front of his room then in general principle – warning everyone away. She came in to him later that night though, slid under the covers and fell straight asleep. Neither of them stirred until the morning.

  


Definitely feeling more rested, they went down to breakfast but the anomalies they picked up even before entering the dining area made them cautious.  
There were the normal breakfast noises - clinking and scraping of cutlery on china, cups and glasses being set down and picked up – but no voices, no conversation. Clint and Natasha exchanged a glance, neither of them sure they liked the sound of this. 

The rest of the team were there, silent; four pairs of eyes watching covertly or intently as Hawkeye and Black Widow came through the door.

The flower arrangement was hard to miss. It was enormous, dominating the bench, a spray of green and purple ostentation. Stark caught Clint's eye then indicated a small black envelope taped to the arrangement's box. _'Hawkeye'_ , in silver pen, curved across the front in elegant loops.  
Clint sighed and reached for it, pulled the card out and read with a sense of inevitability. 

  


' _Challenge accepted_.'

  


Well, _shit_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Clint sighed ... pulled the card out and read with a sense of inevitability.  
>  'Challenge accepted.'  
> Well, shit._

"Is now a good time ask what the hell is going on?" Natasha asked with deceptive sweetness.

"Not really." Clint hedged. He hadn't said anything to her about his conversation with Loki yet, or even that he'd met him. That was perhaps an oversight. "I was on the roof yesterday. Loki turned up. We had words. I may have issued a challenge."

Natasha held his gaze while they waited for the uproar to die down around them.

"No, I am not going in to detail, Cap." Hawkeye was calm. "This won't affect anyone else."

Thor's query, however, took him by surprise, though it really shouldn't have.

"How did he appear?"

Clint assumed Thor wasn't asking how his brother had arrived.

"Tired. He looked tired."

Hawkeye was a trained observer, he noticed shit and was able to recall details, and he'd noticed yesterday that while Loki's suit had been immaculate, of course, there were lines of fatigue drawn around his eyes and mouth. It wasn't the same battered, pained exhaustion he'd shown during their first encounter but he was weary nonetheless. 

Stark, in the meantime, was quizzing JARVIS about what the AI had recorded on the roof. The soundless security footage was reviewed and while it was clear the archer was talking to _someone_ there was no one else visible.

"He may have used a shade to communicate with you." Thor pondered. "It is a favoured trick. Tactic." He corrected himself.

"In the footage from the Helicarrier we can see the duplicates." Natasha questioned. "Why not this time? Can he mask himself from surveillance equipment?"

"If he can hide from Heimdall's sight..." Thor offered unhappily.

"So basically, he can go anywhere he wants, undetected?" Tony swore. "That makes me very twitchy. There's got to be a way to keep track of him..."

"How did the flowers get here?" Clint asked.

"Mundane enough." Bruce replied. "They were delivered by a florist."

Clint eyed the arrangement: it must have cost a fortune. He was hardly an expert on flowers but the colours didn't look entirely natural, and he didn't even recognise half the blooms. He turned the card over, noting the florist's address.

"Worthwhile checking out?" He flicked the card to Natasha. She easily caught it, shrugged.

"Could be."

" _Clint_..."

Hawkeye reluctantly turned to look at Steve, who was clearly not inclined to be ignored. "What's going on?"

"Sorry, Cap, but I really, _really_ don't want to discuss this."

"Are you in danger?"

"Only my dignity." He was aiming for a cocky smile but wasn't sure it was convincing. Captain America frowned and Clint raised a hand placatingly. "Just give me some time, okay?"

"We're your teammates, Hawkeye. You _will_ call us if you need anything."

"Sure thing." Clint turned on his heels and left, half expecting Natasha to follow but oddly grateful when she didn't.

 /

Too wired to eat, too wired even for coffee, Clint found a jacket and sunglasses and headed out. He briefly considered checking the florist but almost immediately dismissed the idea. He just needed to stretch his legs, walk off this nervous energy: he wanted a clear head if things were going to get messy.

Long strides, rhythmic and regular, carried him to Central park. It was still early; the joggers and dog walkers were doing their things, the homeless were stirring... Clint's jaw clenched but he didn't break stride when someone fell in to step beside him. He refused to even glance sideways but got the impression of long legs, dark suit, expensive fabric.

"Good morning, Agent Barton." The smugness was ripe in the trickster's tone; it set Clint's teeth on edge. "Did you like the flowers?"

"Is that actually you, or one of your clones?"

"You could always touch me and see." Clint didn't flinch when Loki leaned in close, resisting the urge to punch the fucker. Loki pulled away again, continuing conversationally. "I quite liked it when you called me 'sir'. You may carry on with that, if you wish."

"Yeah, about that." Clint kept walking, kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. "Enslaving me, killing my friend – I'm having trouble getting past that."

"I only _turned_ those that were useful, or dangerous. And you were both, Agent Barton."

"And the other." Clint prompted. "Killing my friend."

There was a pause then Loki replied, in all seriousness.

"You'll have to be more specific."

" _Phil Coulson_." Hawkeye ground out. "The one you stabbed in the chest who then shot you through a wall."

"Oh. Him." Loki's voice was less smug now. "You should be pleased, Agent Barton. Your friend was a warrior and he died a warrior's death."

"You distracted him with an illusion then stabbed him from behind."

"If you have an advantage over your enemy, do you stay your hand because it's _unfair_?" Clint could hear the frown. "No. You use what's necessary to finish the matter quickly."

"Thor wouldn't have – "

"Yes well, _Thor_ is great and good." Loki's undisguised bitterness hung in the air like poison. " _Thor's_ honour is so profound it borders on stupidity." He fell silent, a very prickly, uncomfortable silence threaded with menace. Clint wondered if the trickster realised just how big and red and shiny his buttons were. _Push Me,_ they screamed. He was far too easy to needle.

"So, do I flatter myself that I'm the only reason you're here?" Clint was nonchalant: while he had Loki's attention he might as well try to get some intel. "Or do you have other nefarious business in the area?"

Loki barked a laugh but the tension hadn't entirely left him.

"Yes, Agent Barton, assume for the sake of your ego my sole purpose here is you."

Well, it was worth a try.

"Fare well, my hawk." Loki's voice was soft in Clint's ear, lips perilously close to his skin. "I will see you again, soon."

Hawkeye kept his hands jammed in his pockets and ignored the prickles racing up and down his spine.

"I'm not your _anything –_ "

But the trickster had already gone.

  /

Natasha had given herself the task of checking out the florist. It was easy enough to find, nice and close to Stark Tower and she wondered if that was the only reason Loki had used it. It probably was, she reasoned, there probably _wasn't_ an ulterior motive at work here. She shook her head and told herself to keep it simple for the moment. Just because it was _Loki_ didn't mean it had to be complicated.

"Hi." Natasha smiled brightly at the thin, older guy sitting behind the counter. "Wondering if you could help me?"

"Sure." He put aside the small, sharp knife he'd been using to strip thorns and leaves from rose stems and briefly wiped his hands on his colourful Hawaiian pattern shirt. "What can I do you for?" There was a very slight Irish lilt to his voice, a soft counterpoint to a rather weathered, ill-shaved face.  

"A friend of mine received a gorgeous flower arrangement this morning. Green and purple?"

The man smiled.

"Pleased with m'self with that one, I admit."

"Did you have all those flowers on hand?"

"Well, no, the customer had brought some with him. I just supplemented."

"Did he say where they were from?"

"No. But when I queried he assured me they were from a reputable source." His amiable expression had dropped away as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"And with the amount of money he was offering you could overlook any discrepancies?"

"Why?" There was definite belligerence now. "Are you from customs?"

"No, no, nothing like that." Natasha tilted her head slightly and smiled again, her ' _I'm just a kitten'_ smile, ' _trust me'_. "How did the customer pay, can I ask?"

"Cash." Short and unfriendly.

"Could you do me a favour and check your cash draw?"

"Why?"

"Please."

He unlocked his cash draw with ungracious, jerky motions, stared down for several long seconds then swore impressively. He pulled out a wad of cut up newspaper and shook it furiously at her.

"How the fuck...?"

"Let me reimburse you." Natalie reached in to her handbag, fished out her purse. The florist glared at the proffered credit card.

"Is this legit?"

"Absolutely." Her most sincere expression. "Please let me make reparations. How much did he get away with...?"

She didn't blink at the amount, and she didn't think the florist was exaggerating, but signed for the amount, plus an added 10%. She was sure Stark wouldn't mind, this was his card, after all.

The florist appeared mollified though no friendlier. Natasha held out a business card, one of Natalie Rushman's.  

"If you see this customer again, could you let me know?"

The florist took the card but snorted.

"He'd have to be a real idiot to come back here after what he pulled."

"He's not likely to, but if he does..."

"Yeah, I'll let you know."  
Natasha smiled professionally.

"Thank you for your cooperation."

 / 

Hawkeye hadn't returned by the time she got back to the tower but apparently – for lack of anything better to do – the science twins had instigated an investigation of the flower arrangement itself.

"JARVIS says that the majority of these plants are not native to the U.S.A." Tony informed her as she came in.

"Not many flowers that appear in florists are." Bruce argued. "He could've got them from a dealer."

"I've cross-checked the inventories of North American suppliers, Dr Banner." JARVIS' cultured voice spoke out of nowhere. Natasha was more or less used to it now. "And four of these species are not listed."

"Loki brought some of his own flowers." Natasha poured herself a cup of coffee. "The florist supplied the rest."

Tony stared thoughtfully at her.

"He brought flora in from outside the States? That contravenes all sorts of regulations, the fiend."

Natasha almost laughed but stopped herself just in time.

"And then he paid the florist in cash, which then turned in to blank paper."

Bruce was definitely amused however.

"So. Loki will hop all over the globe picking flowers for Clint but will scam the florist?" He spread his hands and shrugged. "That sounds like the deranged maniac we know and love."

"Has he got a thing for Barton?" Stark sounded incredulous. "Is that what's going on? Or does he just not like giving up his toys?"

"Natasha..." Bruce gave her a meaningful look, one that Tony observed but didn't comment on. "It would stop the wild and unhelpful speculations."

Black Widow huffed a breath.

"I will talk to him..."

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Has he got a thing for Barton?" Stark sounded incredulous. "Is that what's going on? Or does he just not like giving up his toys?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter before the gear change.

Clint's phone chirped, interrupting his bad-tempered ruminations. It was a text from Nat, directing him, not asking, to meet her at one of the local coffee 'palaces', right now.

Hawkeye re-pocketed the phone, scowled and contemplated his choices. He wasn't done walking – could walk for hours yet, walk the bad mood right out of himself – or he could man the fuck up and go and talk to his friend. Plus there was coffee on offer, not good coffee, true, but as he hadn't imbibed at all yet today he felt he could probably choke it down.  
There'd likely be muffins, too, or fruit toast with extra butter. _Mmm_...

Decision made, Clint left the park at a jog.

/

Natasha didn't understand why this place was so popular: the coffee was substandard, the pastries were very ordinary, the staff were uniformly young and surly yet it was always busy. That was why she'd chosen it, though, as an anonymous meeting place it was perfect. 

She'd bought their coffee and cakes then targeted a recently vacated table at the back of the shop, smiling in a loosely apologetic fashion at the two business men she'd darted ahead of to grab the spot.  
She deployed the coffees and cakes on the small table, clearly defining, by the unspoken rules of cafes, there would be no room here so don't even ask.  
The business men, thwarted in not only getting a seat but availing themselves of her company, retreated.

Natasha pushed the crap leftover from the previous occupants to one side, then settled down, facing the door. She'd give Clint five minutes to get here, then she'd go looking for him. Neither of them would be happy with that. 

/

Hawkeye spotted her almost immediately on stepping inside. Not that hard, really, given he knew where she was likely to sit, strategically. That and her hair colour.  
He dodged through the crowded space, side-stepping unpredictable staff and patrons alike, idly wondering what would happen if he went via the table tops rather than slogging it out on the floor.

Natasha said nothing when he sat down, merely scanned his face coolly.  
Clint took a sip of his coffee and grimaced.  
"Cinnamon?"  
"I'm annoyed with you. Talk."

So he did, plunging headfirst in to a recap of everything that'd happened, from his chat with Thor to this most recent meeting with Loki.  
He left nothing out: first, because Nat always knew when he was being evasive and second, he really needed her tactical input. He saw great from a distance, could predict game plays easily, but this was all too close and he couldn't spot the patterns.

Natasha listened in silence until he reached the end of his tale, then:  
"So you offered to take one for the team?" She quirked an eyebrow. "Idiot."  
"Yeah, I love you too." He smirked half-heartedly. "Wouldn't be the first time I've sacrificed my virtue for the greater good."  
"Yes, but _him_?"  
"I figure if he's concentrating on me he'll be distracted from making trouble?" Clint wasn't quite asking for reassurance, quite.  
"Can you trust him not to renege?" Black Widow frowned. "This is very risky and could backfire spectacularly."  
"I know, I know." Clint poked listlessly at the purported muffin Natasha had bought for him. He thought it might be blueberry but wouldn't have liked to lay money on that. "Can we guess what'll happen if I try to back out?"  
"Only too easily." Natasha lightly touched the back of his wrist. "Let the rest of the team know."  
"Yeah..." The muffin was fragmenting beneath his fingertips. "Not S.H.I.E.L.D. Not Fury."  
"No, we'll keep them out of it for as long as possible." Natasha shrugged at Clint's sharp look. "We're always under surveillance. It's benign but it's there."  
He acceded the truth of this with a small sigh.  
"You never know, perhaps this will all be resolved before anything's noticed."  
"Perhaps."  
"Best case scenario? Maybe if I keep playing hard to get – " Clint wondered at his deep reluctance to speak the Trickster's name. " – he'll get bored and wander off."  
"Let's aim for that, then." Natasha stood up. "Now, let's get back. You have some explaining to do." 

As they stepped back out in to the street Clint caught a flash of black and muted green out of the corner of his eye. He casually turned his head to look but of course there was nothing there...

/

The look on Captain America's face was priceless and Clint would've been laughing heartily at it under different circumstances, if it'd been somebody else's ridiculous situation that had generated the super soldier's bafflement and, yes, shock. 

"You challenged Loki to what, convince you to consider him as a suitor? Hawkeye, that's – "  
"Stupid?" Clint cut in.  
"I was going to say 'risky', but 'stupid' also works." Steve frowned. "And you hope this will distract him from tormenting Natasha?"  
"That's the plan."  
"I can't say I approve but as I don't have any better suggestions..."  
"How far are you willing to take this?" Bruce said.  
"Don't know." Clint shrugged, projecting a casual confidence. "I'll play it by ear, I guess. I have no intention of getting _involved_. I'm hoping I can divert his attention without compromising myself."  
"Cock teasing as a strategy. Barton, you're a genius." Tony mock applauded.  
"Any other ideas, Stark?" Clint snapped. "I'm open to suggestion."  
"As long as you're not open – "  
" _Don't_ finish that sentence."  
" _Enough_." Steve's command voice snapped across them. He glared a warning then turned to Thor, who'd been silent and watchful at the edge of the group. "Ideas, comments?" 

The Thunderer's arms were locked across his chest.  
"Hawkeye's strategy could work. My brother has been known to withdraw if things are not going his way." He turned to Clint, speaking earnestly and his blue eyes were shadowed. "But I give you fair warning, friend Hawkeye, do not play with his affections. That will not be tolerated."

Clint nodded, gentling his tone in unconscious response to Thor's unease.  
"I'm keeping this strictly physical. Like I said, I've got no intention of getting involved, in any way." 

Thor nodded, but it was clear that he was very unhappy. Hawkeye made a mental note to pin him down about that, later, in private.  
God knew he already felt like he was walking barefoot in to a mine field; it would be useful to know where not to step.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Thor nodded, but it was clear that he was very unhappy. Hawkeye made a mental note to pin him down about that, later, in private. God knew he already felt like he was walking barefoot in to a mine field; it would be useful to know where not to step..._
> 
> _[Later edit: Now the coding's showing in the main text. Ok, I give up. Have reported the bug._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Posted earlier but the editing didn't hold. Trying again - apologies for any problems with the formatting.)

<p>Nothing much happened for several days or rather, it was business as usual for the Avengers – the odd alien incursion, a terrorist cell uprooted, Captain America visiting schools in 'disadvantaged' areas – but all was quiet on the God of Mischief front. Clint wasn't dumb enough to think that the Trickster was done with him, but if he <i>had</i> been dumb enough then Nat would've given him a friendly reminder. A smack in the nose was a surprisingly good way to regain focus.</p><br>  
<p>Over beers one quiet evening Clint had attempted to get to the bottom of Thor's continuing uneasiness. Sure, the Asgardian was doing a good job of keeping it to himself but it was there in his eyes, every time he looked at Clint.</p>  
<p>"So. What's on your mind?"</p>  
<p>It was always best to be direct with Thor: he appreciated honesty and while he was anything but stupid subtlety bounced off him like ping pong balls off concrete.</p>  
<p>"I... just wish Loki would speak to me." The air displaced by the sigh from his massive chest rustled paper ten feet away. "He is still my brother and I miss him."</p>  
<p>Clint figured Thor could lie about as well as Steve – which was, not at all – but that didn't mean he was above withholding parts of the truth. He was definitely holding <i>something</i> back, and Clint was tempted to push because dammit, this related to <i>his</i> safety. However, he reluctantly, prudently, decided to respect the big guy's reticence this time. He didn't want to piss Thor off, a pissed off God of Thunder was a scary, scary thing. So, he just nodded, and they continued to drink in silence.</p>

/

<p>Clint had mostly relied on gym work and calisthenics to keep up his fitness but he'd recently added running to the mix, usually in the mornings, before his brain woke and realised what he was doing. He'd never really considered himself a morning person but sometimes there was something almost mystically invigorating about being up and about early. Most of the time, though, it was a pain in the ass and he'd much rather be sleeping. But, he wasn't immortal, was he, and he didn't have a superhuman healing factor so he just grit his teeth and got on with it.</p>  
<p>He liked running in Central Park, feeling it kept him on his toes in more ways than one. He liked the landscaping, he liked the trees, the bridges and ponds and ducks. He liked that there was a space like this in the middle of a busy city, and that it was open to anyone.</p>

<p>'Anyone' this morning unfortunately included a tall, lean figure in a charcoal grey suit, lounging elegantly on a bench beside the track. Yes, true to his name, Hawkeye had spotted him some way back, long enough to argue with himself the merits of just ignoring him and jogging on by. The decision was taken out of his hands when the Trickster stood up as he approached, deliberately planting himself in the middle of the path, and waited.<br>  
Oh well.</p>  
<p>"Good morning, Agent Barton." He held out one of the two take-away cups he was carrying. "Coffee?" He observed Clint's indecision with amusement. "I swear to you it is nothing but coffee."<br>  
Clint had more reason than most not to trust the guy but he was going to have to play along at some point if he wanted to keep him interested.<br>  
"Thanks."<br>  
It was just coffee, rather good coffee in fact. Clint tried not to look surprised, or overly gratified.<br>  
"Shall we sit?" Loki indicated the bench.<br>  
"Do you mind if we walk? If I sit down now I won't get up."<br>  
"Why?"<br>  
It seemed like genuine curiosity so Clint tamped down his instinctive smartassery and answered honestly.<br>  
"I've been running and my muscles are warm. If they cool down too quickly they'll seize up."<br>  
Loki nodded, a small smile playing over his lips.<br>  
"The price of exertion."<br>  
"The price of trying to delay the damn aging process." Clint huffed.<br>  
"You don't enjoy doing this?"<br>  
"Not particularly."<br>  
"What do you enjoy?"<br>  
Clint stopped abruptly.<br>  
"You <i>know</i> what I enjoy." He growled. "You spent enough goddamn time picking through my brain."<br>  
Loki's gaze was cool and serious.<br>  
"You enjoy hitting your target. Nothing else matters."</p>  
<p>Clint was on the point of snapping out a list of other enjoyable things – good coffee, friends, sex – but forced his mouth shut when he realised the Trickster was absolutely right... and trying to prove otherwise would only make him look petulant.</p>  
<p>"I suppose so." He conceded ungraciously and resumed walking.<br>  
"I meant no offence, Agent Barton, I was merely trying to make conversation." Loki was strolling beside him again. " Is that not what happens when someone piques your interest? You make conversation and ask questions; you try to find out about them."<br>  
"But you already know about me. I'm at a distinct disadvantage here." <br>

Clint was pleased that he sounded so steady, given the... the <i>rage</i> still clawing at his throat trying to get out. And okay, perhaps his shrink, sorry, trauma counsellor, was right and he wasn't completely over what had happened to him, despite his breezy assurances to all and sundry that he was <i>just fine</i>.</p>  
<p>"Then ask me a question." Loki said expansively. "Anything at all."</p>  
<p>Clint considered: anything? <i>Why do you hate your brother? What fucked you up</i>?<br>  
"What's your favourite colour?"</p>  
<p>The Trickster laughed, though it was oddly almost silent, and gestured to his deep green, probably silk shirt. His tie, Clint noted in passing, was almost the same shade of grey as his suit but was also probably silk and textured with a repeating motif that resembled the curved horns of his armour.</p>  
<p>"Can you not guess?"<br>  
"Don't you know it's impolite to answer a question with a question?" Clint forced a half-smile on to his face. "I gotta go. Thanks for the coffee." He loped off in to an easy jog, pausing only to toss his empty paper cup in to a bin. He did not look back once.</p>

/

<p>Patrolling was never fun and Tony Stark was bored. Black Widow – who'd had the misfortune to be partnered with him tonight – had stopped responding to his inane chatter at least thirty minutes ago but it felt so much longer.</p>  
<p>"I could be at home doing something useful. I could be schmoozing with the beautiful people."</p>  
<p>Natasha refrained, again, from quoting S.H.I.E.L.D. regulations about comm use. Stark knew perfectly well what they were and she was not going to indulge him.</p>  
<p>"Why do we even have to be out here? Daddy Bear's got the city, hell the whole country, the world, wired for sound."</p>  
<p>Black Widow exhaled calmly: electronic surveillance was all very well but sometimes there were things that could only be detected the old fashioned way. Things like Loki.</p>  
<p>"<i>Shit</i>."<br>  
"What? What is it?"<br>  
"Nothing."</p>  
<p>Natasha took out her earpiece and switched it off, never looking away from the God of Lies who'd just appeared in front of her on the rooftop.<br>  
"Agent Romanoff." Loki inclined his head politely enough but his eyes glinted dangerously in the shadows of his face.<br>  
"Can I help you?" She made no move towards any weapon.<br>  
"I'm looking for Agent Barton."<br>  
"He's working."<br>  
"Where?"<br>  
He was quite good at looming, she had to admit, but he was no Hulk.<br>  
"That's classified."<br>  
Loki bared his teeth.<br>  
"I will flay it out of you."<br>  
"He's hardly going to fly to your side if you hurt me."<br>  
That gave him pause.<br>  
"You know about our arrangement?"<br>  
"Of course."<br>  
"<i>Of course</i>." It was mocking. "And <i>of course</i> you don't approve."<br>  
"Give me one good reason why I should." Natasha shot back, and then, because she really wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer, continued: "I will, however, give you a clue."<br>  
Loki said nothing but the intensity of his gaze would've made someone of less sterner stuff quail.<br>  
"He's at a birthday party. For a charitable old dame."<br>  
No thanks, <i>of course</i>: the Trickster simply disappeared.<br>  
"Please don't make trouble for him." Natasha called softly, even though she most likely went unheard.</p>  
<p>A flare of jets heralded Iron Man's arrival.<br>  
"You took your time."<br>  
"I was watching; you seemed to be holding your own. Have you fixed that problem with your comms? S.H.I.E.L.D.s squawking and it's giving me a headache."<br>  
Natasha's grin was small but downright evilly complicit. She slipped the earpiece back on, reactivating it.<br>  
"Just a glitch." She took out her 'phone, the one not monitored by S.H.I.E.L.D, and sent a text to Clint. <i>L incoming</i>. "All good now."</p>

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Natasha's grin was small but downright evilly complicit. She slipped the earpiece back on, reactivating it._  
>  "Just a glitch." She took out her 'phone, the one not monitored by S.H.I.E.L.D, and sent a text to Clint. **L incoming**. "All good now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there are formatting/posting problems but they're being looked at. Fingers crossed for a readable fic...

Adelaide Mackenzie, _née_ Trower, had been the daughter of an American industrialist. She'd married the eldest son of her father's business partner in 1918, at Christmas, after he'd returned from service in the Great War. An heiress and extremely wealthy in her own right, she'd maintained control of her finances, ultimately dedicating the bulk of it to 'good works', aiding the underprivileged, the poor, the dispossessed in American society.  
In 1942 Adelaide Mackenzie had endowed a charity for this purpose, enduring severe criticism for not using the money to help with America's war effort. Despite the censure and accusations of unpatriotic behaviour, Adelaide had continued with what she considered her 'mission', helping those who couldn't help themselves.

Clint Barton smiled down at one of Adelaide's descendants.  
"That's a lovely dress."  
"Thank you." The girl, Aileen, beamed, smoothing her hands over the rich blue, heavily beaded fabric. "It's vintage Dior, belonged to my mother." 

Due to explicit threats against its board of directors, the _Adelaide Mackenzie Foundation_ had requested extra security at this year's fund raising event, and because those directors included politicians and captains of industry it was deemed worthy of S.H.I.E.L.D.s attention.  
Captain America was here too, in a tux, being a more conspicuous security asset than Clint, also in a tux, who'd been lurking at the fringes of this glittering assembly of society's worthies. 

"Do you often work security?" Aileen asked him, deep green eyes friendly and focused.  
"Rarely this well catered." Clint saluted her with his champagne flute of soda water and lime.  
"Have you ever shot anybody?"  
"Well, I can't divulge that information – "  
"'cause then you'd have to kill me?" Aileen giggled, smiling up at him through long lashes.

Aww, was she flirting with him? Clint was charmed, which probably wasn't the reaction she was aiming for, but she was just so... cute. And young. Not just in years but in experience. Compared to her youth, and assumed innocence, Clint felt old and tired. He wouldn't want to start anything with this girl, he'd be afraid of soiling her... 

"... don't want to be one of those useless rich girls."

 _Oops_. He'd been doing his job, focused on scanning the crowd and had sort of tuned out to the girl, but Clint thought he could deduce where the comment had come from.

"Hey, never be ashamed of having money. Nothing wrong with that, the problems start when those with money assume they've got moral superiority _because_ of the money. That's when the lower classes get uppity and restless."  
Aileen laughed, delighted.  
"You know, if you'd been one of my social studies teachers I might just have paid attention."  
"Thanks." Clint grinned. "So, any ideas about what to do with yourself?"  
"I thought about teaching, or nursing..." Aileen's pretty face was thoughtful. "But there's so many people need help. So many children need help. I thought... I thought I could go in to social work."

He wasn't surprised she seemed hesitant about expressing her choice. After all it wasn't the sort of thing a debutante – did they still have those? – would be expected to pursue.

"It's a hard job, and largely thankless." Clint nodded. "But they can really make a difference."

He thought Aileen's relief at being taken seriously was kind of sad...

His 'phone chirped.  
"Excuse me for a moment?" He smiled apologetically at the girl.

 _'L incoming'_  
Ah, shit.

"Everything okay? Only, you look like you've just snapped to attention."  
"Did I? Damn, I was trying to be subtle." Clint knew the humour sounded forced. "It's fine. Shouldn't be a problem."  
And then he spotted the arrogant shit, prowling purposefully towards him, not looking the least bit out of place amongst the wealth and privilege and fancy finger food.  
"Stay here, okay." He murmured to Aileen.

Clint remembered to remove his earpiece as he strode forward to meet the Trickster.

"You do know this place is crawling with security from three different agencies."  
Goddammit, he really wanted to punch the smirk of that angular face.  
"Are you telling me to leave, Agent Barton?"  
"I'm _suggesting_ you leave."  
"After all we've shared. All those moments of intimacy – "

Astonished and uncomfortable, Clint watched as tears welled up in the Trickster's eyes.

" _What?_ "  
"I thought I meant more to you."  
"The hell are you...?"

Belatedly, Clint realised that Aileen had disregarded his orders and was now standing beside him. He glared at Loki, narrow eyed: this was all for her benefit, obviously.

"I really think you should leave." Clint's tone was low but firm. "This is _not_ the place."

Loki's expression crumpled in to a convincing despair and he looked directly at Aileen.

"Be careful with this one." There was a catch in his voice, a sobbing hitch crafted to evoke sympathy. "He will break your heart." 

Clint glanced at Aileen and almost groaned: her eyes were wide and she'd unconsciously clasped her hands together, pressing them to her sternum. _Hook, line and sinker_.

The Trickster returned his tragic gaze to Clint.  
"I'll go. I understand. Farewell, my hawk."

He turned to leave, apparently dejected but the hint of a self-satisfied smirk flashed across his face as he made eye contact with Clint. Hawkeye was pretty certain Aileen hadn't seen it.

Tense, he watched Loki saunter away, not taking his eyes off him until he'd exited the hall. How the hell had he got past security in the first place?

Clint turned back to Aileen, surprised to see she was now... blushing?  
"You and him?" She swallowed. "That's... kind of hot."  
Clint smiled weakly.  
"It's complicated."

Aileen opened her mouth to reply – and Clint just knew it was going to get awkward – but he was saved by the appearance of a young man in an expensive suit and ridiculously shiny shoes. He approached Aileen with a smile, clearly a contemporary if not a friend. He flicked a glance over Clint, summarily assessing then dismissing him with a careless nod, the barest acknowledgement politeness demanded. Aileen noticed and frowned, but at Clint's shrug she let it go.

"'leen, your dad wants to talk to you."  
"He could've come over himself." She pointed out, frostily.  
"He's talking to Judge Sanders." The boy lifted a shoulder, a _what-can-you-do_ gesture.  
"Oh fine..." Aileen sighed, then smiled at Clint and held out her hand. "Pleasure to meet you."  
"And you, too." Clint gently shook her soft hand with its long fingers and manicured nails, noting the barely concealed scowl on the boy's face. Aileen let herself be taken by the elbow and steered away.  
"Enjoy the party!" She grinned back over her shoulder.  
"Thanks!" Clint replied, lifting his glass again. "Good luck with the career."

He wasn't close enough to hear what was being said but it was clear the boy was asking Aileen 'what career'. Clint wondered if he should've kept his mouth shut: this might not've been something she'd wanted broadcast.  
He saw Aileen respond, her chin lifted defiantly, and the boy scoffed. The dipshit actually _scoffed_ , and you didn't need to be an expert in body language to gauge her response to that. Aileen shook his hand free of her elbow and marched off by herself, stiff-backed. _You go, girl_.  
Clint chortled: the boy had obviously put the kaibosh on any romantic plans he'd had for Aileen. _Idiot_.

  
/  


The night dragged on. Clint remembered to replace his earpiece. He texted Natasha: _'Thnx for the h u. L been and gone. No property damage.'_  
She responded with: ' _Shldv given him harder clues._ '  
Clint quirked an eyebrow: he'd found out what that was all about, later.

He caught glimpses of Aileen every now and again in the crowd and she always smiled and gave him a little wave when she spotted him. The dumb boy with the shiny shoes was never far away from her and evidently unhappy at being ignored. _Too bad, so sad, sucker._

  
/  


The event wound up in the wee small hours of the morning. A security debrief was held in a plain, cramped ante-room off the main ball room. It was stifling in there and everyone was tired, but the coffee was excellent. Clint unbuttoned his cuffs and loosened his natty bow tie. Beside him, Captain America did much the same, with much the same sigh of relief. They shared an ironic grin and Clint resisted the urge to giggle. He and Steve were just two simple plebs, happy to be shedding the disguises that allowed them to mix with the elite.

The evening had gone smoothly, apparently, no one else had noticed the God of Mischief wandering in their midst. Clint was both relieved and uneasy over that.

He and Steve were offered a ride home in a S.H.I.E.L.D. car. Clint waved them off.  
"Nah, thanks anyway. I feel like walking."  
"Take care." Steve offered with a smile. "I'll probably see you – " he glanced at his watch. " – later today."

  
/  


The city that never sleeps was nevertheless, at 4 a.m., quieter in some areas than others. There were cars and taxis about, but nobody on the streets. It was still too early for the joggers and dog-walkers.

Clint happily ambled along for several blocks, past the good hotels and ritzy old buildings of this part of town. It was peaceful, the street lights competing with the pre-dawn to illuminate his path. 

Ahead of him a shadow moved, separated itself from a building. Swirling and twisting it flowed towards him, coalescing in to a familiar and unwelcome shape.  
Clint eyed the Trickster sourly: he _had_ been enjoying the walk.

"Did you have a pleasant evening, Agent Barton?"  
"I was working, but yes, I did. Thanks."

They stood in silence, on the edge of hostility. Clint finally sighed, too tired for the bullshit.

"I suppose we could go for a drink or something. Not _now_." He added irritably when Loki stood up straighter. "I just wanna sleep."  
"When then?" Loki's expression was sardonic. "My schedule is open."  
"Tomorrow night. If I'm not saving the world or something." Clint fired off an address. "Meet me there at 10."  
"Very well, it's a date." 

_Date_. Loki had relished the word, holding Clint's gaze while he verbally caressed it, the creep. Clint was uncomfortably aware they were completely alone on the street.

"Good night." He said firmly, then turned his back on the Trickster and flagged down a taxi. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _**Date**. Loki had relished the word, holding Clint's gaze while he verbally caressed it, the creep. Clint was uncomfortably aware they were completely alone on the street..._

Tony Stark was laughing so hard he was crying, tears rolling down his face and in to his goatee.  
Clint shook his head, bemused.  
“It’s not that funny.”  
“Oh, Barton, Barton, Barton, you have no idea.” Tony took some deep breaths and scrubbed his hands over his eyes. “ ‘ _You and him… kinda hot…_ ’” And he was off again.  
Natasha observed the performance with a rueful expression.  
“Stark, when was the last time you slept?”  
“Forty-seven hours, eighteen minutes and twenty-three seconds ago.” JARVIS chimed in.  
Black Widow raised an eyebrow.  
“Is that a record?”  
“Not even close, Agent Romanoff.” The AI merely sounded resigned.  
Natasha turned back to Clint.  
“So, a date?”  
He grimaced.  
“Don’t call it that. It’s just a drink.”  
“Where are you taking him?”  
“ _Don Carlo’s_.”  
Both of Natasha’s eyebrows went up this time.  
“Seriously?” The spy and the marksman smirked at each other. “You’re evil.”  
“What? What’s _Don Carlo’s_?” Tony had stopped laughing at the first hint of something scandalous.  
“A dive, you wouldn’t like it.” Clint was dismissive.  
“I like dives.” Stark protested. “I’m down with dives.”  
“Not this one.” Natasha asserted. “ Trust me, you wouldn’t like it.”  
Tony clearly didn’t believe them.  
“JARVIS?”  
“I can’t find any record of a _Don Carlo’s_ that could match the theoretical parameters.”  
“It’s not called _Don Carlo’s_.” Clint was grinning. “That’s just what we call it.”  
“You’re using a code name?” Tony griped. “That’s not fair. C’mon, give, what is it? You may as well tell me, you know I’m only going to follow you otherwise.”  
“You just can’t bear not knowing, can you, Tony?” Black Widow’s mild amusement, Clint knew, was just a cover: Natasha found teasing Tony deeply entertaining, but she’d never, ever admit to it.

  


Stark had cajoled and pleaded with them for the name of this den of iniquity, had even threatened Clint with planting a bug on him - _you’d never find it, Barton, ever!_ – but had eventually gone off in a huff when they continued to refuse.

Natasha had ‘helped’ Clint get ready for the not-date. He’d ignored every one of her purposefully outrageous suggestions for outfits, deciding all on his own to go for simplicity and comfort… and ease of movement if he needed to disappear quickly up the side of building or something. The black jeans, combat boots, dark purple t-shirt and even darker red leather jacket were perfectly adequate, it wasn’t like he was trying to impress his ‘date’. 

  
/  


Unfortunately the world hadn’t need saving and so a little after 10pm Clint arrived at the designated meeting point. The Trickster wasn’t immediately in sight, but he materialised out of the shadows as soon as Clint had paid the taxi driver. 

It was a short walk to their destination, down a couple of alleys smelling of piss and old food.

“This is it?”

The God of Mischief was underwhelmed and Clint couldn’t really blame him. The battered metal door set in the battered and refuse-blackened brick wall didn’t exude affluence. A staticky red neon sign declared ‘ _Rear Entrance_ ’ open for business.

The door banged open and a dishevelled figure stumbled out, staggered a few paces away before vomiting copiously against the wall.

“I fear I am overdressed.” Loki observed wryly. The air sparkled around him as he began the transformation to change his clothes but Clint stopped him.  
“No, don’t. Pretty boy in a suit, they’ll love you.” 

Loki looked dubious but he followed as Clint entered the club.

  


Clint slid a few notes through the slot in the cashier’s cage, got the stamp on the back of his hand and gestured for Loki to do the same. He could feel the music from here, thumping through the floor and walls, and damn if it didn’t kick up his adrenalin a mite.  
He nodded to the pair of bouncers guarding the end of the corridor then brushed through the grimy once-scarlet velvet curtains and sauntered in to the heart of the club.

He and Nat had exaggerated the diveiness of this place. Sure, it wasn’t classy by any stretch of the imagination but neither was it full of spitting bikers. 

The entrance opened on to a mezzanine, three metres wide, of industrial steel flooring and rails which edged around the club’s interior. At several points there were wide gaps in the railing where steel steps lead down in to the pit – the dance floor. 

Clint glanced over the railing and grinned at the mild debauchery on display: there would be worse going on in the darkness beneath the mezzanine. 

He led his guest around to the bar at the back, directly opposite the entrance. It was mid-week, so the place wasn’t too crowded; they were served quickly and found seats at one of the small tables overlooking the dance floor. Loki didn’t seem at all fazed by the looks he was getting, quite the opposite in fact, revelling just a bit in the attention. 

The music was not so loud up here that you risked straining your throat to have a conversation, but what do you say to someone you neither liked nor trusted? 

“So. Why are you here? On Earth.” Clint added before Loki could be a pedantic asshat.  
“Unfinished business. You were a trifling afterthought, in case you were wondering.”  
If he’d thought to wound with that comment he was well off the mark.  
“Flatterer.” Clint snorted. “Why bother?”  
“I was bored.” Cold eyes glittered with malice.  
“I’ve heard the trick to getting someone to like you is to not insult them.”  
Loki leant forward.  
“Your _liking_ me or not,” he smirked. “Is immaterial.”  
Clint lifted his glass and said cheerfully:  
“And you can go fuck yourself, too.”

  


A diminutive blonde woman in a short, tight denim skirt and tighter white tank top swayed past them, trailing her hand over Clint’s shoulder and smiling at him. She made her way to the pit, glancing back at him provocatively. Her hair was long and straight, the ends of it brushing her waist.

Loki raised an eyebrow.  
“I think she wants you to dance with her.”  
Clint shrugged.  
“Etiquette amongst mortals is to not go off after someone if you’re already with someone else.”  
“I have no objection.” Loki was gracious. “Please, feel free.”

Hawkeye scrutinised him, trying to gauge his level of sincerity, before deciding he really didn’t care.

“Thanks.”

  


He descended the stairs to meet the woman waiting for him at the edge of the grimy floor. She stretched up and draped her arms around his neck.

“Hey, Clint.” Her mouth was very close to his ear, the only way he could hear her.  
“Hi, Donnie.” Hawkeye wrapped his arms around her waist. “How are you?”

Donnie Carello owned the club. Clint had known her for years, back even before the cross-dressing.

“Doin’ fine, baby.” She tilted a glance to the man looking down at them from the mezzanine. “Not your usual type.”  
“You have no idea what my usual type is.” Clint scoffed gently. Donnie just quirked a finely drawn eyebrow.  
“How is Natasha?”  
“She says ‘hi’.”

They moved together more or less in time with the music, Clint frankly enjoying having the soft, sweet-smelling body in his arms.

“Your friend is watching closely. Shall we give him a show?”  
Clint frowned.  
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”  
“Jealous type?”  
“I honestly don’t know, babe. Not sure I want to test it.”  
“Oh go on.” Donnie was practically purring. “I’m sure you’ll protect little ol’ me if shit happens.”  
Clint rolled his eyes but he laughed.  
“Okay then, but you keep lookin’ at me, not him. Just a precaution.”  
“All right.” 

Donnie pressed closer until they were touching, hip to hip, chest to chest, and boy, did that feel good. She gazed up at him, her unnaturally green eyes outlined with heavy make-up, tilting up her chin. It was an invitation to a kiss so Clint did, his lips brushing hers, all too aware of the lipstick. Donnie was never subtle with the war paint.

She laughed.  
“I’m sure you can do better than that, lover.” She writhed slowly against him. “I know you want to.”

Clint smirked: in other circumstances, such as not having an emotionally unstable sociopathic god there watching, he would have dived in enthusiastically. But not tonight. He stopped moving and very gently stepped away.

“Thanks, Donnie.”  
“You’re welcome.” The sarcasm was light but pointed, then she laughed again and reached up to kiss his cheek. “Don’t be a stranger.”

And then she was gone, wriggling further in to the crowd.

Clint watched her go, a half smile on his face: he straightened his jacket and went back upstairs.

Loki was lounging in his chair with that smug _I know something you’re too stupid to guess_ look on his face. 

“You do realise that was a man you were all over?”  
“Yep.” Clint sipped his drink, enjoying his guest’s sudden confusion.  
“You… don’t care?”  
“Nope.”  
“Is it not considered deviant behaviour?”  
“By some.” Clint shrugged. “Not by me.”  
“Midgardian morals are... incomprehensible.”

The Trickster was clearly having trouble processing all this. His discomfort was a spiteful delight to Clint who found himself wanting to push the asshole even further off balance. 

“The only problem I have with some trans guys,” He began conversationally. “Is the wigs. You can’t get a good grip on their hair.”  
Loki stilled.  
“That is something you like?”

Clint was alert to the swift rise in tension in Loki’s lean body. Hair pulling had never been a _thing_ with him, really, but it was obviously doing something for the Trickster.

He let his gaze drift over to focus on Loki’s shoulder length hair before snapping back to look directly in to his eyes.  
“Yeah, it is.” 

Loki lifted his chin, his indolent smile clearly a challenge. _Okay_...

Clint leant in, and telegraphing every move, reached across the short distance between them to touch his fingertips to Loki’s neck, just beneath his ear. He paused there for a moment, watching Loki’s face for any hint of him flipping out at this temerity, but there was no reaction save a narrowing of his eyes.  
Clint moved his hand forward until he was lightly cupping the god’s long neck, pale skin cool and smooth against his comparatively rough palm. There was still no reaction so Clint slid his fingers up to the base of Loki’s skull and into the sleek black hair. He unhurriedly clenched his fist, tangling a hank of hair in his fingers, then guided, pulled, the Trickster towards him while simultaneously tipping his head back.  
 _That_ got a reaction.

Loki’s mouth fell open slightly as his breathing surged and there was the faintest stain of colour blossoming on his cheeks. Clint didn’t let his surprise show, or acknowledge the weird triumph singing through his blood. Instead, he tightened his grip and brought his mouth close to Loki’s ear.

“Thanks for the drink.” He murmured. “I’m going home.”

He released his grip and stood up, gave Loki a final, almost friendly half-smile, then turned on his heel and sauntered away. He looked back once before he exited through the curtains, but Loki had already disappeared.

  
/  


Alone in the taxi on the way home, Clint finally relaxed enough to admit to himself the low thrum of arousal he was experiencing. That wasn’t supposed to happen but dammit, he refused to let himself feel bad about this perfectly natural reaction even as he actively refused to indulge it.

Back at the tower he bypassed everything and went straight up to the range, intending to sublimate the sexual energy into action by firing arrows at shit.

It worked too, the repetitive _nock-aim-fire_ calming and steadying him, clearing his mind, realigning his whatevers, blah blah blah. He was probably approaching zen or something...

He’d been aware of Natasha coming on to the range but she stayed quiet until he’d finished.

“Have fun?” She asked as he stowed his weaponry.  
“Not exactly.”  
“Fury’s here. He wants a word.”  
Clint breathed out heavily.  
“Of course he does...”

  



	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Fury’s here. He wants a word.”_  
>  Clint breathed out heavily.  
> “Of course he does...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the end of this chapter there's the excerpt from chapter 2, where Clint makes his deal with Loki.

Clint stood _at ease_ , like the soldier he surely was – chin up, hands clasped behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart – and waited for the boss to speak, which Fury did, after several tense moments.

“Care to explain yourself, Agent Barton?”  
“Sir?”  
A distinctly unimpressed gaze was levelled at him.  
“You’ve been in contact with Loki of Asgard, a known hostile.” The S.H.I.E.L.D. director spoke with a deceptively patient tone, the sort he used when he was feeling put-upon. “And not just ‘in contact’, apparently. It’s all looking very cosy from where I sit and I’m curious as to what the fuck you think you’re doing?”  
“Sir, it’s – “  
“Don’t you _dare_ tell me ‘it’s complicated’, Agent Barton.” Fury snapped. “It’s _very, very_ simple. Loki is a murdering psychopath at the top of our shit list. _Why is he not dead or in custody?!_ ”  
Clint swallowed, blanching at Fury’s... fury.  
“Well?” The Director demanded.  
“Sorry, sir, I’m trying to think of the quickest way to explain.” 

That wasn’t entirely true, what he was doing was desperately trying to think of the least embarrassing way to explain.

“You have thirty seconds, Agent, before I throw your ass in the brig.”

Clint steeled himself then let it all come tumbling out; Loki’s victimization of Natasha and his, Clint’s, yes, stupid arrangement with the Trickster. He was flushed and miserable with mortification when he’d finished, knowing exactly how ridiculous it sounded when related to a third party, but he didn’t once look away from Fury. He had the remnants of his pride, at least.

“Offering Loki your ass, literally, was the best you could come up with?” Fury shook his head slowly. “Frankly, Agent, I’m concerned about your mental status.”  
“He’s not controlling me.” Clint put in quickly.  
“If he was I doubt you’d be telling me any of this. Why didn’t you report it?”  
“Embarrassment, sir, to be honest.”  
Fury gave him a long look and Barton absolutely did not squirm.  
“Does the rest of your team know?”  
“Yessir.”  
“Are they helping in any way?”  
“Nossir, I asked them to stay out of it.”

The Director sighed and straightened up, pulling his shoulders back from the borderline antagonistic, combat-ready stance he’d assumed. 

“Agent Barton you will cease any and all contact with Loki of Asgard. Failure to do so will result in disciplinary action.” He glared at Clint. “Don’t make me discipline you, Hawkeye, you won’t like it.”  
“Sir, I can’t just break all contact without explanation.” Clint protested. “I’m sure that will only make things worse.”  
Another unreadable look came his way.  
“This has to end.” Fury said at last then turned sharply and strode away. “… do what you have to.”

  
/  


Was there any point putting it off?

Clint went up to the roof of Stark Tower, and waited. Sure, it was two in the morning but he suspected the Trickster wasn’t asleep and he was pretty damn certain he’d be keeping watch somehow. The sort of mood he might be in was something else to consider, though; it’d only been a couple of hours since he’d been left hanging in the club. And did Clint feel bad about that yet? No, he did not.

He hadn’t had time to get bored, or talk himself out of this, before Loki swirled out of the air in front of him. Hawkeye tensed, his very own survival instincts kicking in at the look on the god’s thin face.  
 _Rapacious_ , that was a word, wasn’t it? He made a mental note to look it up if he survived this.

“Mom says I can’t play with you any more, you’re a bad influence.”  
Clear, cool eyes narrowed dangerously.  
“I don’t understand.”  
“I’ve been formally cautioned to cease contact with you or risk disciplinary measures. So – “ Clint assumed a relaxed position, open, only moderately dangerous. “According to the terms of our agreement... here I am. One time offer.”

He wasn’t sure what reaction he’d been expecting but the sudden and furious anger almost startled him enough to step back. He stubbornly held his ground though.

“ _I did not agree to those conditions!_ ” Loki raged, and Clint remembered that technically, he hadn’t. Silence is not consent after all. “This is Fury’s doing, is it not? I will flay him alive; _he will see his heirs burn in front of him!_ ”

The wrath of a god was not to be taken lightly. Clint had seen Thor pissed off but this...? This was unhinged and frankly it scared the living shit out of him. 

Loki snarled and vanished, the blast of frigid air almost knocking Clint off his feet.  
He waited, apprehensive, for something catastrophic to happen, for the sky to open and fire to fall. Was Loki capable of that without the sceptre? 

It felt like several long minutes before he could take a full breath again and when it was apparent that the world probably wasn’t going to end right now, Clint went back inside. He contacted Fury, delivering a curt: ‘ _FYI he’s pissed_ ’, before switching off all means of communication and going to bed. He didn’t sleep, not until the sun was almost over the horizon.

  
/  


Nothing happened.  


Natasha wasn’t revisited by nightmares; Clint didn’t see a flash of anything in his peripheral vision; no one caught any hint of Loki. After three days Clint forced himself out of ‘alert’ mode: he was still waiting for shit to happen but the constant vigilance was wearing him down and he’d rather be rested.

Ten days on and Natasha asked him, quietly:  
“Do you think he’s given up?”  
“Do you?” Clint shoots back, and immediately follows it up with an apologetic look. He was still on edge, still the wrong side of snappy.  
Natasha laid her hand on his upper arm and squeezed gently.  
“We all have to die sometime.” Her mock-solicitous tone makes him grin despite himself.  
“You’re such a comfort, Nat, thanks.”  
“Anyway I can help.” She smiles at him then, that fond twitch of her lips that is for no-one else.

  
/  


Clint’s in the middle of combat, up high where he can see everything. He’s got this: the scaly whatevers they’re fighting are fast but predictable and he’s able to accurately call their movements to the rest of his team. He’s almost enjoying himself, taking shots that don’t miss, keeping the critters clear of vulnerable targets. He didn’t realise they could climb, though, until Captain America is shouting a warning to him through the comms.

“Hawkeye, to your right! There’s one coming over the roof to you!”

Clint turns and swears as the thing looms far too close, far too quickly. Yeah, they’re fast.

A bolt of gold light shoots from behind him, over his shoulder; he can feel the crackle of energy grazing his neck a split second before it hits the critter which squeals as it’s split open. Clint spins to see Loki, in leather but not armoured, standing relaxed and almost indolent a few paces behind him.

“The hell…!”  
“You could thank me, I did just save you from being skewered.”  
“ _Don’t_ help me!” Clint turns back to combat. “You wouldn’t believe the paperwork. Form 436/BD-1Z: _‘Aid from a known hostile during combat’_.” He draws his bow, aiming at the last creature menacing Black Widow. “It’s eight pages. Nightmare.”

He’s keeping half an eye on Loki but mostly his attention is on the battle, which is winding down now. Clint concentrates, scanning the area for any last moving targets; leaving any of them mobile would be a bad thing.

There’s a flash of black out of the corner of his eye then suddenly the Trickster is at his side, lips spread wide in a grin that’s not so much evil as… exultant? Long fingers curl around the wrist of his bow arm and a searing cold pain lances through him, to the bone, arrowing down the veins to his elbow. Through the shrieking agony Clint swears he can see rivulets of ice beneath his skin. He is speechless with the ache of it but wrenched his arm away.  
He dropped his bow and clutched his wrist but the pain was already fading.

“The fuck…?” 

Loki’s grin widens with unmistakeable satisfaction. He steps back, inclines his head and is gone. The whole incident has taken maybe four seconds. 

“ _Clint?_ ” Natasha’s voice is urgent in his earpiece.  
“I’m good.” He answers, getting control of his breathing. “I’m good.”  
“Are you all right? Did the creature reach you?”

That’s not what she’s asking and he knows it but is ridiculously thankful for her discretion over the open comms.

“All clear up here. Secure down there?”  
“Yes. Clean-up’s on its way.”

Captain America tells everyone to stand down and congratulates them on a job well done. Clint’s not really listening though, he’s staring at the curved horns of Loki’s sigil etched on to his inner wrist. The raised lines are crisp and blue, shining where the god’s palm had sat over his skin... 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, so this is what Clint proposed, and what Loki absolutely did not sign up for:
> 
>  _"I want you to leave me and mine alone."_  
>  Loki sauntered forward a step or two: Clint held his ground.  
> "Oh, but I'm not done with you, Agent Barton."  
> "Then deal with me. Just me."  
> "You're offering yourself?" The trickster seemed genuinely amused.  
> "If you wanna put it that way. Here's the deal. You want something from me, let's get it out of the way, once, then you fuck off and leave me alone."  
> "What if I want more?" The voice was beguiling now, dropping on that last word, and Loki angled his head so he was gazing at Clint through his long, dark eyelashes. The shit-eating superior smile, though, ruined the effect and allowed Hawkeye to maintain his rock-hard focus.  
> "If you want more then you have to make me see the value of it."  
> Loki straightened to his full height, definitely amused now.  
> "You want me to woo you, Agent Barton?"  
> "No, frankly I want to see you dead, but that's what I'm offering. Do what you want, once, or try and change my mind. Without tricks, without magic. Consider it a challenge."
> 
> Oh, Clint, Clint, Clint...


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Captain America tells everyone to stand down and congratulates them on a job well done. Clint’s not really listening though, he’s staring at the curved horns of Loki’s sigil etched on to his inner wrist. The raised lines are crisp and blue, shining where the god’s palm had sat over his skin..._

There was a downside to having a sleeveless uniform... 

Clint kept his marked wrist concealed as best he could, angled towards his body. It wasn’t his dominant arm, fortunately, because keeping that awkwardly still would’ve been harder to explain. Natasha knew something was up, of course but he’d answered the minute lift of her eyebrow with an equally minute head shake. _Not yet_.

Stark, predictably, suggested food and while Clint wanted nothing more than to get out of sight, in the interests of not drawing attention to himself he went along with it. Nat, bless her, seconded by Steve and Bruce, overrode Tony’s idea of descending on some random eatery in their erstwhile combat zone. Instead they took their seats in the jet and headed back to the Tower, relaying their orders to JARVIS for delivery. 

Clint’s composure was hanging by a thread. There was a scream of rage, of dread, fizzing sourly in his gut and he was keeping it down through sheer bloody mindedness. For the moment however he could pretend that everything was fine, engaging in post-combat banter like normal, thanking Cap for saving his ass: yep, move along, folks, nothing to see here.

“JARVIS, get some of that chicken stuff Fury likes, too.” Tony said offhandedly. “No doubt we can expect a visit from our glorious leader.”

Clint’s jaw clenched as he battered down a surge of panic: Fury was going to turn up for a debrief, as usual, and he was going to find out what had happened on the rooftop and he was going to rip through Clint even though it wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t his fucking fault!

He jerked at the gentle hand subtly pressed against his thigh. _Natasha_. He took a shaky breath and forced himself to relax. Freaking out was not an option.

Once the jet landed he was out of there like a shot, making a joke about bathrooms and his pressing need thereof. He headed straight for his quarters and only once he was securely locked in did he look at his wrist, and even then he kept his back to the door.

Okay. _Okay._

The mark was about two inches long, a little less wide, not impossible to conceal. One of those thick watch straps would do the job. Clint glared at the sigil, feeling his temper rise again. What did this mean? Was the bastard trying to control him again or just make his life awkward? There was only one person he could possibly ask. 

  
/  


“Thor, buddy, a word?”

The Thunderer, smiling, slice of pizza in hand, followed Clint over to an empty corner, out of earshot of everyone else. 

“’Twas a glorious battle, was it not, friend Hawkeye?”  
“Mm.” Clint was non-committal which he saw immediately put Thor on alert. The guy was not stupid.  
“What troubles you, Clint?”  
Hawkeye pulled up the sleeve of his shirt, just enough to expose his marked wrist.  
“What’s this?”  
Thor recoiled, nothing as obvious as a step back or anything, but he definitely flinched.  
“My brother?” His voice dropped to a strained murmur.  
“Who else?”  
“When?”  
“While I was on the roof. He zapped the critter that was coming for me then did this.”  
Thor’s eyes were wide and full of concern.  
“Did he ask your leave?” Clint’s expression impelled a small and rueful, _hard_ smile. “He did not.”  
Clint could feel the tension snap in is his jaw muscles: there would be a headache before long.  
“What does this _mean_?”  
Thor wasn’t smiling any more.  
“It could mean a number of things – “  
“Such as?”  
The God of Thunder shook his head slightly at Clint’s obvious impatience.   
“Hawkeye, please, allow me time to marshal my words. I do not wish to misspeak and make matters worse.”  


Clint nodded sharply, once, and waited, arms folded tightly over his chest. His focus was on Thor but he was also aware of the decrease in background noise: they were under observation by the rest of the team, obviously. Hopefully Nat would dissuade any of them from approaching. 

“Marking, branding, is not an Asgardian custom,” Thor began, voice low. “But Loki has ever been willing to embrace aspects of foreign cultures if they suit his purpose.” He paused again. “On the most superficial level he has marked you as his property, but it may also mean you are under his protection.”  
“I don’t need his protection!” Clint spat, unsurprisingly indignant.  
“Protection, not because you are weak but because you are of value.Understand, Hawkeye, I can only speculate the meaning from what I know of my brother and his... motivations.”  
It was the slightest of pauses but Clint jumped on it.  
“Motivations?”   
Thor didn’t answer but he was clearly ill at ease and there was a definite edge to his discomfort. So naturally Clint pushed.  
“ _Motivations_?” He was insistent. “C’mon, tell me.”  
“It is private.” Thor growled a cold warning.  
“No, you _tell_ me.” Clint stabbed a finger in to a chest that yielded to the pressure precisely the same way concrete would. “You’ve been really unhappy about this whole thing from the start. Why?” 

The silence dragged and Clint continued to match Thor’s glare until the Thunderer finally broke eye contact.

“Very well. But the telling will take time, and...” he flicked a glance at the rest of their now conspicuously silent team. “... it _is_ a private matter, between you and I only, Hawkeye.”  
Clint nodded decisively.  
“My room then. I have beer.”  
“Good.” Thor relaxed slightly. “I need a drink.”

  
/  


“What do you know of my people?”

They were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen bench in Clint’s quarters. Clint was on the kitchen side, within easy reach of the ‘fridge; Thor was on the living room side, with the apartment’s floor-to-ceiling windows displaying a vista of New York behind him. There were dark clouds rolling across in the distance; Clint liked to think they were significant of nothing more than the weather. 

“Only what you’ve told us, I guess. Honour is everything. Battle and feasting is a way of life.” He sipped his beer. “Mead is awesome.”   
“Yes.” Thor’s smile was engaging, lifting the solidity of his face in to something remarkable. Clint had understood, in an abstract sort of way, that Thor was good-looking, much as Steve was good-looking, but it had never translated to the personal before. Why now? It was, Clint realised, because Thor was thinking about _home_. It made him, weirdly, more human. 

“There’s more?” Clint dead-panned.  
“Of course.” The Thunderer arched an eyebrow, used to his team mate’s teasing banter. “But the nub of it is there: honour is everything. There are things a man may do – must do – to increase it, and there are things that will diminish it.”  
Clint waited.  
“Which are...?” He prompted.   
“Which are...” Thor fiddled with the label on his bottle. “Acting in a manner more befitting a woman.”   
Clint sighed, close to exasperation.  
“You’re going to have to be more specific, buddy, I’m just not following.”  
Thor looked at him, those oh-so-blue eyes piercing.  
“Magic is woman’s work.”

It took a moment.

“Oh.” Said Clint.   
“My brother’s use of magic is... unmanly, even though - ” and this looked like it was paining him to say. “Even though, in truth, sometimes Loki’s magic was the only thing that saved me, saved us, saved our comrades, from defeat.” Thor went back to picking the label off his bottle. “I did him such disservice, Hawkeye. I sought to protect his honour. I thought, foolishly, that if I made light of his ability it would seem less of an offense.”  
“Having the thing you’re good at trivialised? That’s gotta mess with your head.” Clint observed quietly.  
Thor nodded.  
“Worse, it was not his honour I was truly protecting, but my own.”  
“Taint by association?”  
Thor nodded again, but a faint, wry smile tugged up his mouth.  
“Though that worked in reverse to his advantage. No one dared speak out against him because he was _my_ brother.”  
“Did he know?”  
“He knew. It did not please him, being in my shadow.”  
Clint was watching his team mate’s face.  
“There’s more, isn’t there? Not just the magic.”  
“Aye.” Thor heaved a sigh. “Loki’s strangeness went beyond just that. He craved knowledge, not battle. He used _words_ to gain his will, to wound or flatter. He could be cruel with them or weave such stories you would believe what he said despite the evidence of your senses.”  
The silence stretched again.  
“And...?” 

So far Thor hadn’t told him anything that could explain the twitchiness over his brother’s actions towards him, Clint, so logically, there had to be more. 

“And...” Thor was so reluctant to speak it was obvious they were getting to the heart of the problem, and given what he’d just found out about Asgardian attitudes towards ‘honour’ and ‘manliness’, Clint was beginning to get an inkling of a suspicion. “And... there were rumours, whispers, that Loki liked to... take the woman’s role in bed.”

There is was, and Clint felt oddly relieved. This he could handle, though in the face of Thor’s palpable anxiety he refrained from saying ‘ _is that all?_ ’

“They were only rumours, and never spoken aloud.” Thor hurried on. “I never acknowledged them, even to deny them.”  
“And if they had been spoken...?”  
“A duel.” Thor said bluntly. “I suspect that may have been another reason why Loki was never accused. Even without his magic my brother is a quick and deadly warrior. Not many can match him.”

Clint leant back a little, finished his beer and tapped the bottle’s neck against his teeth.

“So.” He was thoughtful. “If Loki wanted to have me, that would be acceptable?”  
“Somewhat.” Thor was kind of adorable when he blushed. “But then it would be _your_ honour...”  
Clint waved that away.  
“I’m not Asgardian.”  
“But there are those here on Midguard who would see it as dishonour.”  
“Yeah, well, I don’t agree with _those_. I’m a firm believer in the rights of consenting adults to do whatever the hell they want to each other.”  
“Are you considering... a tryst?”  
“Look, I dunno. I’m tryin’ to avoid any unnecessary mess, but...” Clint frowned. “I don’t like your brother, Thor, and I don’t trust him. I will however do what I have to to protect my friends.” He drummed his fingertips against the empty bottle. “Did you mean what you said, right at the beginning of all this, that you wouldn’t think less of me if... you know.”  
“Assuredly. Your values may not be wholly mine but you are a noble warrior and a friend.”  
“Thanks.”   
“You _are_ an honourable man, friend Clint.” Thor smiled, lifting his bottle in salute before downing the contents in a few long swallows.  
“I hope I never disappoint you.” Clint indicated their empty bottles.  
“Another?”  
Thor grinned, a little more relaxed now.  
“Indeed, another.”

  



	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Are you considering a... a tryst?”_  
>  “Look, I dunno. I’m tryin’ to avoid any unnecessary mess, but...” Clint frowned. “I don’t like your brother, Thor, and I don’t trust him. I will however do what I have to to protect my friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the change in tags! ' **Graphic depictions of violence** ' has been added.
> 
> Sorry for the recent delays in getting chapters up. My 'procrastinate' disad is linked to hot weather...  
> (If you haven't already done so, have you considered using the ' _Subscribe_ ' function here? You'll get an email notification when the author/fic you've subscribed to updates. Very handy.)

They’d barely started in on their second beers before JARVIS spoke.

“Thor, Agent Barton, Director Fury has requested your presence at the debriefing.”  
“’Requested’?” Clint quirked an eyebrow.  
“I’m paraphrasing, of course.” JARVIS replied.  
Thor glanced down at Clint’s wrist.  
“Will you tell Fury of this?”  
“No point hiding it.” Clint sighed. “He’d find out anyway and then my life will be worse by several shades of shit.”  
Thor clapped him – gently, more of a pat, really – on the shoulder.  
“You will not face him alone.”  
“You’ve got my back?”  
“Always!” Thor’s reply was effusive and just so damn hearty Clint couldn’t help but grin. Seriously, hanging out with the God of Thunder was like being in one of those old, 50’s, swash-buckling movies, sort of technicolour and surreal.

  


Fury’s reaction to Clint’s revelation was understated in that he _didn’t_ start yelling or have him arrested, but the hard look from that one very hard eye was still intimidating. 

“I don’t know that I could’ve prevented the contact, sir.” Clint kept his voice steady; he may have felt like a kid pleading for clemency from his dad but he was damned if he would let himself sound like it. “He was just there.”

Fury continued to level that _look_ at him for several long seconds and Clint was very grateful for Thor’s massive presence at his shoulder.

“What do you think this means?” S.H.I.E.L.D’s director addressed them both but it was Clint that answered.  
“I honestly don’t know, sir.”

That was the unvarnished truth: Clint could make assumptions, sure, but he didn’t _know_. He was very aware of the rest of the Avengers and their watchful, wary silence as this played out. He’d told them previously about their boss’s threats should he continue his ‘association’ with S.H.I.E.L.D’s no. 1 asshole. 

“I think you can guess my feelings about this, Agent Barton, but I can concede it probably wasn’t your fault.” Fury said. “I want that mark tested and analysed, I want to be sure it’s not being used as a means to control you.”  
“Can Bruce do it?” Clint cut in quickly, glancing at his team mate.  
“Dr Banner?” Fury turned to the scientist.  
“Sure.” Bruce lifted a shoulder. “There’s enough equipment here to figure something out.”  
Fury looked like he was about to say something then he nodded.  
“Report back to me as soon as you have anything.” He turned on his heel and strode out.

  


With the director’s exit the tension in the room eased considerably. 

“I thought for sure he was going to put you away.” Stark commented, moving forward to aim a playful punch at Clint’s shoulder.  
“So did I.” Clint breathed out. He nodded at Bruce. “Thanks for agreeing to do the tests.”  
“I figured you didn’t want to go to the Helicarrier.” Banner half-smiled. “I didn’t want to go there either.”  
“So, time for science?” Tony asked brightly. “Excellent!” He gestured for Clint and Bruce to follow him.  
“Is this gonna hurt?” Clint glanced at Bruce.  
“Not if we can reign in Tony’s, uh, enthusiasm.”  
“I feel so reassured...”  
“Is there any pizza left?” asked Thor.

  


Loki’s mark gave off no observable energy signature - though Bruce was by no means convinced they weren’t dealing with something completely new – but most reassuringly there was no hint of the Tesseract about it. Clint wasn’t that surprised; he was already pretty sure the Trickster wasn’t augmenting himself with anything like that this time. He didn’t seem to have the same sort of wattage. 

The mark also appeared to make his skin impervious to trauma. Not all of his skin, just the part covered by the brand, extending out to a centimetre around. This had been discovered when he’d given permission for a biopsy and the needle Bruce tried to use to administer a local anaesthetic had bowed then snapped against his skin. Similarly a scalpel had failed to do more than make an indentation. 

“Well that’s useful.” Clint had remarked sourly when the limit of the invulnerability was discovered. “If I’m vaporised or something there’ll be at least one piece of me that can be identified.”

They couldn’t however establish whether the mark was affecting Clint in any other way, but Bruce didn’t think it was, neither did Tony. Clint didn’t feel impartial enough to comment, besides which he really wasn’t one hundred percent sure, not viscerally.

“What we need is a telepath.” Tony mused.  
“Know any?” Bruce asked with a small smile.  
“No. But...”  
“No, Tony.”  
“It’ll be fun!”  
“ _No_.”  
“What does he want to do now?” Clint asked Bruce.  
“Our favourite billionaire genius is contemplating ways to develop telepathic powers.”  
“Can he do that?”  
“Probably.” Bruce was amused. “Just don’t volunteer as a test pilot for whatever he comes up with.”  
“Wouldn’t it be tested on monkeys or something first?”  
“What? No!” Stark was appalled. “Telepathic monkeys is a terrible idea...!”

  


Between the theorising and the setting up of equipment, the testing of Loki’s mark took up the rest of the day and carried on in to the night. Clint hardly followed any of the jargon the sciencebros were throwing around but it was entertaining watching them interact. They both obviously enjoyed the back and forth of their incomprehensible banter and Clint could appreciate that. It was important to have someone who understood you, someone who really _got_ what you were about.

Steve, Nat or Thor wandered in periodically with provisions, though no alcohol, at Bruce’s insistence and Tony’s disdain. He pointed a screwdriver at his compatriot.

“You and I, big fella, are going to have a talk about creating and maintaining a harmonious work environment.”  
“You honestly don’t see any issue with mixing alcohol and experimental technology?” Bruce countered mildly, continuing to fiddle about with the wired innards of something or other.  
“I do it all the time!”  
“And that never blows up in your face, does it?”  
“There have been incidents, yes, but I have safety protocols.”

Bruce didn’t respond but he was grinning as he shook his head. Clint got the impression this was an old argument.  
  
/ 

“So, in effect, Colonel, we’re sure the mark isn’t being used to exert any influence over Clint.” Bruce was vid-calling Fury with the results of their day’s work. “It’s just... an ownership stamp.” He cast an apologetic look at Hawkeye. “Sorry.”

Clint shrugged, that’s what Thor had suggested anyway though the thought still rankled. He was _not_ Loki’s goddamn property.

“Thank you, gentlemen. Keep monitoring the situation.” Fury signed off.

“Now I’m going to have a drink.” Tony declared. “If that’s all right with you, mom.” This last was directed at Bruce, who chuckled.  
“Knock yourself out.”

Clint wiped a hand over his face. Fury’s apparent acceptance of the outcome had released a tension he’d only been half aware of, and that, along with hours spent inside being poked and prodded had left him feeling like shit, exhausted and cranky.  
Natasha nudged him with her shoulder.  
“I’m bored. Spar with me.”  
Clint didn’t bother trying to be cool about it, he beamed at her.  
“Oh god, yes please...”

  
/  


There was something... off about this: they could all sense it.

The call had come early, before dawn; a bunch of luminous somethings had crawled out of the river near 39th and were attacking a warehouse. The Avengers had responded but when they got there several minutes later it was all quiet, no damage and nothing to fight. Captain America hadn’t called off the incoming S.H.I.E.L.D back-up though, not yet.

“I don’t like this.” Black Widow muttered, scanning the empty street. The lighting down here was better than average, but it cast deep shadows.  
“Focus, people.” Captain America said. “Tony, do a fly over. Take Hawkeye and get him up high.” Standard procedure, in other words. Clint braced himself for the lift in to the air. “JARVIS, were you able to trace that call?”  
“No, Captain Rogers, sorry. I could only establish that it was from a cell ‘phone and routed through the towers here.”

Clint was deposited with barely a bump on the roof of an older four storey brick building. His boots didn’t have a lot of traction on the metal roof but it was nothing he couldn’t cope with.  
He had a good view of the area, including his team down on the street and the warehouse that was supposed to have been attacked. There was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary and he said as much over the comms.

“How long to do you want me up here, Cap?”  
“Give it ten minutes. We’re going to spread out and take a look.”

Clint paced the edge of the roof, side by side by side, sweeping his gaze back and forth along the roads, the roofs and empty windows of the adjacent buildings.

He had a couple of seconds warning – Tony yelling: “ _Hawkeye! Life signs underneath you...!_ ” – when the metal he was standing on erupted up and out, violently enough to throw him clear off the roof and slam him in to the building opposite. Too stunned by the impact he didn’t, couldn’t react as he plummeted towards the pavement.  
He never hit the ground; something larger than him, amorphous and glowing, sank... claws? in to his side, puncturing the armour of his uniform and meeting in the middle of his guts. There was a frantic buzzing in his earpiece but he couldn’t respond, couldn’t even breath, then suddenly he was in the sky, clear of the buildings. The sun was coming over the horizon, clear and bright. He could see the light catching crisply against the edges of the skyscrapers.

The thing carrying him spread ... wings? and wrenched itself upwards against gravity. Its claws slipped, tearing half out of his body and Clint screamed, though it felt like the noise was coming from someone else, far away. Another flap, another wrench and he was falling. He hit the ground hard, felt something snap inside.

There was water nearby, he could smell it over the scent of blood and ruptured internals. A face loomed over him: black hair, sharp lines, eyes that blazed. Clint slipped in to the darkness, disappointed: he’d really wanted Nat’s face to be the last thing he saw.

  



	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hit the ground hard, felt something snap inside. There was water nearby, he could smell it over the scent of blood and ruptured internals. A face loomed over him: black hair, sharp lines, eyes that blazed. Clint slipped in to the darkness, disappointed: he’d really wanted Nat’s face to be the last thing he saw...

_Apples_...

...

There was a rushing up of sensation. Pain perhaps, fear, exhaustion, euphoria, all jumbled around, flitting bursts of colour, there and gone before they could be distinguished and labelled.  
The discordancy ebbed away and he floated, passive, overwhelmed by... _apples_.

That too faded and other things, other scents began to tickle at him.  
 _Clean linen, dried in the sun._  
 _Lavender and lemon, pungent and astringent_.  
 _The dead, flat taste of air-conditioning_.  
 _Coffee..._

Clint opened his eyes and began to orient himself. He was lying on his back staring up at a featureless ceiling that was not quite white. The down-lights were subtle, recessed, blending seamlessly with the ceiling. They weren’t switched on and the flavour of the ambient light indicated it was daytime. His legs twitched and he became aware of the single sheet covering his body. 

“How do you fare, Agent Barton?”

The voice was low and soft with a timbre of concern that he could almost believe was genuine. 

“I appear to be alive.” His voice rasped against his ears. Clint moved his tongue around his mouth, chasing the lingering taste of apples until he’d generated enough spit to swallow, easing the roughness. He rolled his head to face the speaker. “How?”

Loki was lounging in an armchair, legs stretched out before him. He held a white mug in both hands, his eyes glittering at Clint over the rim. He wore no tie, no jacket; his white shirt was rumpled, the top few buttons undone, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There was a spray of what was probably Clint’s blood smeared across his torso. 

“What do you remember?”  
“I remember... being thrown off the roof. Being grabbed through the guts by one of those things. I remember falling. And then there was you.” Clint frowned at the Trickster. “What were you doing there?”  
“Rescuing you, my damsel.” There was a smile on his face but it was sharp, sarcastic.  
“Why? My team were on their way.”  
“They wouldn’t have got there in time.”  
“Even Iron Man?” Clint was thinking about how fast that suit could go when Tony let rip.  
“Even he.” The smile was forced and brittle now: Loki’s fingers had tightened around the mug. “Why do you question me?”  
“I don’t _trust_ you!” Clint snapped.  
“Your _team_ were fighting their own battles. They would have got to you eventually but you would have been dead. They may have been prepared to mourn you, I was not.”  
“So you _saved_ me?” Clint glared at him.  
“ _Yes_.” Loki glared right back.  
“... _thank you_.” It was probably the most ungracious expression of gratitude in the history of anything.  
“You’re _welcome_.” Was the all but snarled reply.

Clint looked away, took a deep breath.

“How am I not dead?”  
There was a pause.  
“I used an old remedy. Made from apples. To my knowledge it has never been given to a human. I was curious to see the result.”  
Clint gave him a sharp look.  
“You didn’t know what was going to happen?”  
“At the worst you would have died, which would have happened anyway if I’d done nothing.” Loki made the experimentation sound perfectly reasonable. “But it appears to have worked so where’s the harm?”

Clint ground his teeth together, refusing to let his temper rise again. He sat up, noting that he was naked under the sheet, and also that he was clean. There was no blood, no sweat, none of the usual post-battle grime, just the faint scent of lavender and lemon rising from his skin. Had Loki washed him? The thought was a little unnerving.  
He ran his fingers over the minimal scarring on his flank: it looked like he’d taken damage, true, but that it had happened months ago.

“How long have I been here?” He wasn’t going to panic, nope.  
“It is mid-afternoon of the day I rescued you.”  
He touched his fingers to the scars again.  
“Not your regular Granny Smiths then.” He murmured. He looked back at Loki. “What happens now?”  
“You’re free to go.” The Trickster sounded tired. “Though I would think it churlish.”  
 _... after I’ve saved your life_. Clint finished in his head. 

The sensible thing would be to leave, he knew that, but everything had been leading to this point, hadn’t it?

“I need to contact my team.” He said at last.

Loki pointed across the room, to a pale wood sideboard where a ‘phone sat in a recharge cradle. Clint almost sighed; it couldn’t have been next to the bed, could it? No, that would’ve been too easy. He considered dragging the sheet around him for modesty’s sake but one look at his host’s sly smirk changed his mind. Was he was expected to be embarrassed by his nudity? Fuck that.

Clint pulled back the sheet then swung his legs over the side of the bed. He stood up cautiously, prepared to take it slowly in case of any lingering weakness, but once on his feet he found himself to be fine.

He looked around.  
“Nice place you’ve got here.”

It was, very nice. A large, open apartment, very classy, obviously expensive. Not a lot of personalisation but good quality furnishings. The thick, dove-grey rug beneath his feet, for example, was _fantastic_.

Clint’s attention was drawn to the enormous windows with their amazing vista of New York, the Avengers Tower front and centre...

_Wait_ – he frowned – there was no building that close to the Tower that could get this particular view.

Loki was watching him, the smirk lingering but his expression more calculating now.

“It’s a scrying spell.” He said. “We’re not in New York.”  
“Huh. Where are we then?”  
Loki quirked an eyebrow at him.  
“You don’t expect me to reveal the location of my lair, do you, Agent Barton?”  
Clint snorted.  
“No, not until I’m thoroughly beaten and you’re monologuing in your triumph. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to go?”

Loki’s low chuckle followed him as he padded across the room to the ‘phone.

Clint dialled a familiar number, and waited. 

“Yes?”  
“Hi, Nat, it’s me.”  
“Clint?” The suspicion in her voice was well-founded but still a little hurtful. “ _Word_.”  
He grinned.  
“Asparagus rat.  
” “... Where are you?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“Are you all right? Tony saw Loki crouched over you, then you both disappeared.”

Clint’s mouth compressed in to a grim line: none of his team would’ve made it to him in time? _Bastard_.

“I’m fine. No lasting damage.”  
“Loki? You’re with him now?”  
“Yep. Any other casualties?”  
“No, it was all over pretty quickly. We tried to find you.” Now he could hear the strain she’d been under. “Can you leave?”  
“Yes. But not yet.”  
“Is that wise? Thor recognised the creatures, he’s almost certain Loki summoned them.”  
Clint sighed.  
“Well, there’s a surprise.”

Maybe he _should_ just go?  
No, this had to be settled, he was tired of having the situation hanging over his job, his friends, his life.

“Gotta go. I’ll be in contact.”  
“Are you sure you’re all right?”  
“I’m good, really.”  
“Okay.” Natasha said softly, then she hung up.

Clint replaced the phone in its cradle then turned to face Loki, trying to keep his face neutral if not pleasant. He wasn’t feeling very _pleasant_ at the moment.

“Did you mean for me to get banged up so badly? Was that part of the plan? You’d swoop in and rescue me and I’d be just so _damn_ grateful I’d bend over for you?”  
“Such a fruitful imagination you have, Agent Barton.”

Clint’s jaw tightened: that wasn’t a denial but it wasn’t a _mea culpa_ either. Faint hope the prick was ever going to directly admit to anything anyway. _Whatever_.

He prowled – there was no other word for it – to stand in front of Loki, looking down at him, assessing his options while Loki looked up at him, cool and challenging.

“Do you wish to leave?”  
“Yeah, but we’re not done, are we? Me leaving now would just prolong the bullshit.”  
The Trickster didn’t reply, merely half-smiled and took a sip of his coffee.  
 _Coffee_.

Clint’s mouth watered as the beguiling scent wafted up to smack him in the nostrils. He hadn’t been offered his own, so...

“Thanks.” He plucked the cup out of Loki’s hands, grinning at the god’s quickly hidden surprise. 

Several swallows of lukewarm but revitalising coffee later, Clint felt he was able to finally muster his thoughts.

“Thor’s been filling me in on some interesting aspects of Asgardian culture.”  
Loki twitched at the mention of his once-brother but recovered swiftly.  
“I can’t imagine anything that oaf has to say would be ‘interesting’.”  
“Oh, but it was.” Clint drained the cup with a satisfied sigh. “Particularly those archaic notions of what a man is and _isn’t_ supposed to do.”  
Loki scoffed.  
“And you don’t subscribe to those... notions?” His lips twisted on the word.  
“You know I don’t.” 

Clint thought he’d been pretty frank about it all at the club, but perhaps Loki hadn’t really believed him.

“Maybe I was reading more in to what Thor was saying than he meant but I’m guessing you’ve spent most of your life trying to be what other people think you should be.” Loki’s eyes had narrowed dangerously but Clint plunged on. “You want to be fucked, I’m not going to mock you for it, or brag about it. You want to be fucked by me, fine, let’s go.”  
“You think you can just _have_ me, Agent Barton?”  
“Hell no, even I’m not that stupid.”  
“Then... what?”  
Clint suppressed an exasperated sigh.  
“This doesn’t have to be about dominance.”  
“It is _always_ about dominance.” 

Clint was startled in to silence: if Loki was telling the truth, if he really believed what he was saying... No equality, ever? Just the threat of humiliation if you weren’t strong enough? That had to be one of the saddest thing’s he’d ever heard.

“Don’t be naive.” The Trickster was continuing. “The weaker submits to the stronger. It has always been so.”  
“It doesn’t have to be.” Clint insisted. “It can just be about sharing pleasure.”  
“Naive, _foolish_ sentiment.” Loki snapped. “Have you ever bedded a man? Did you not feel triumph in the conquest?”  
“Yes, and sure, sometimes.” Clint shrugged. “But I never thought less of them for it. And - ” he continued, anticipating the next point. “ – before you ask, yes, I have ‘been bedded’ and I never felt I was the lesser - except for this one small-dicked asshole who thought he had something to prove - but other than that...” He shrugged again.

Loki was studying his face, reading him for signs of duplicity no doubt, but he didn’t speak.

“Look.” Clint scrubbed his hand through his hair. “You’re going to have to tell me what you want ‘cause I’m just not picking up on the clues, which no doubt are flying thick and fast but I’m just a stupid human - ”  
“ _Stop talking_.”

Clint’s mouth snapped shut without his volition and for a terrifying moment he thought it was because the Trickster did still have some sort of hold on him, but no, the logic centre of his brain kicked in a moment later to reassure him he was just responding to the tone of command, much as he did when Fury –  
Clint told his brain to _shut the hell up and pay attention_.

Loki was standing now, fists clenched and shoulders tense: the look he was giving Clint was definitely... hungry. Clint reached out and pressed a fingertip to the topmost of the buttons that remained fastened on Loki’s shirt. He _felt_ the hitch in the god’s breath, felt the subtle quiver that ran through him. Heady stuff.

Loki stepped close, crowding him, but Clint held his ground.

“So, shall I leave?”

Cool fingers rested lightly on his hips, curling over the bone and pulling him closer.

“No.”

Clint smile wasn’t wholly warm. Well, this wouldn’t be the first time he’d had sex with someone he actively disliked.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the home stretch now. There's one, possibly two more chapters to go.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Loki stepped close, crowding him, but Clint held his ground._   
> _“So, shall I leave?”_   
> _Cool fingers rested lightly on his hips, curling over the bone and pulling him closer._   
> _“No.”_   
> _Clint's smile wasn’t wholly warm: well, this wouldn’t be the first time he’d had sex with someone he actively disliked…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to up the rating to Explicit!
> 
> (Apologies again for taking so long to update. This chapter _would not_ be rushed... On the plus side, while I was pondering this, the epilogue was mostly finished and a smutty PWP took shape. )

Clint put aside the empty coffee cup he was still holding then quirked an eyebrow at the Trickster. _And...?_

Moments later, when he found himself on his back, held flat to the bed with invisible ropes binding him from hips to shoulders and along his arms, he conceded privately that issuing any sort of challenge to Loki was a pretty dumb thing to do. He didn’t feel threatened, though, not for his life at least. His dignity? That was something else entirely. Oh, but he couldn’t help stirring the pot: Clint threw Loki another potentially provoking look, one that implied that this was all a bit tiresome.

He didn’t yelp, though he did twitch, when more of those invisible ropes wound around his dick, constricting just enough to be a worry. Then they began to move, rippling and pulsing, coaxing an erection out of him, and Clint gave up on being worried in favour of being a little bit flabbergasted but definitely turned on. Another tendril snaked over his balls and down between his thighs to poke and swirl and tease at his anus. He refused to be freaked out by this, locking eyes with the smirking bastard standing over him, but wisely keeping his mouth shut for a change.

Loki’s gaze roamed over him, taking in the flushed arousal, the bared teeth and involuntarily spread thighs, and he nodded, his smirk transforming in to an almost smile.  
The god’s clothes dissolved in to a sparkling mist of gold and trailed away to nothing revealing creamy skin and a half-hard cock.

Compared to Thor - and comparisons were unavoidable - he was lean and lithe, his strength evident in sharply defined musculature. Sure, he didn’t have Thor’s bulk but he was still a warrior and a god and not to be underrated. 

Clint still wasn’t entirely sure how this was going to go, what role he was going to be playing... until Loki straddled his hips, reached behind himself to grab and steady Clint’s cock, then slid down on to him in one smooth push. Eyes closed, the god stayed perfectly still for one lingering moment before leaning back and bracing his hands on Clint’s thighs. A tiny corner of Clint’s mind made noises about lubrication, but that apparently had already been dealt with.

The archer was a-okay with being used as a masturbatory aid, really he was, and not only because he still couldn’t actively participate. Clint knew he was staring but despite Loki’s physical strength and his dangerous unpredictability, with his head thrown back like that and throat exposed, he was entrancing. There was a vulnerability about him and for a moment Clint could almost understand Thor’s continuing, thinly disguised protectiveness.

Clint realised he was free to move at last and strangely, his first thought wasn’t about escaping. Loki moving on him like that, the supple flex and release of his thighs and arse, the slick ease of him around his cock felt fucking _amazing_. He slid one hand up the god’s body, gliding over ribs and firm pectorals, on up to his shoulder. The other moved over the long muscles of a thigh, brushing against Loki’s abdomen before drifting down to encircle his penis.

Loki shuddered at the touch and his rhythm faltered momentarily before shifting to accommodate the change, pushing in to Clint’s fingers. A few strokes on and he shifted again, crouching forward over the archer, breathing hard, his fingers digging in to Clint’s shoulders as he fucked himself to a harsh climax.

Clint left his hands where they were, resisting the temptation to brush the Trickster’s hair back from where it hung around his face; some instinct of self-preservation warning him against any displays of tenderness that could be taken as a sign of weakness. He didn’t doubt - in Loki’s mind at least – that this was still somehow a battle of dominance.

Loki may have been heavier and stronger than him but Clint knew how to fight dirty. He twisted suddenly, tipping the Trickster over. It was debatable if he’d actually surprised him or had merely been allowed the liberty, but the net result was Loki on his back underneath him. He’d taken Clint with him, however, not letting him disengage so the archer was still balls deep in Norse God. Fine, he could work with that.

Loki smirked at Clint’s predatory grin, wrapping his legs around the archer’s waist, locking him in place as he quirked a dark eyebrow in a clear _do your worst_ taunt.  
Clint’s hand shot out before the Trickster could react, capturing his wrists and pinning them to the bed above his head. The bones were deceptively thin beneath his fingers but there was a dangerous glint in Loki’s eyes and Clint didn’t believe for one second that he’d been rendered helpless in any way.

Clint managed to worm his free hand underneath Loki’s thigh, shoving the leg away, forcing him to relax the grip on his body. He pushed the Trickster’s knee down, spreading him open and coercing a helpful tilt to his pelvis. Using his grip on Loki’s knee as leverage Clint was finally, literally in a position to take control. His first few thrusts were slow and experimental, testing for reaction. He must have been doing something right though, because Loki was firming again.

“Put some effort in.” Loki growled, trying to press up against Clint’s stomach. “ _Harder_ , curse you! You can’t hurt me.”

Clint complied with an easy grin that belied his determination. He was a grown man with experience and a far better than average fitness and stamina: if Loki wanted _hard_ he’d give him _hard_... or give himself an aneurysm trying.

Clint focused, calling on years of discipline and rigorous physical and mental training, and sheer bloody mindedness, to prove that he could supply what was required. Loki tensed, shivering as Clint pounded in to him, shifting just enough to find the perfect angle without putting the archer off his pace.

Clint guessed he was getting close when Loki broke out of his grip and hauled him in tight, curling around him, raking his nails down his back. Clint put in that little bit more effort, pushing himself that little bit more, his teeth brushing Loki’s shoulder then biting bit down as the Trickster bucked against him, hard enough to draw blood if his partner had been human. Loki hissed out a breath, his limbs tightening further around the archer, the tell-tale spurt of wet warmth spreading between their bodies. Clint gasped, swearing in surprise as his own climax ripped through him; he’d been concentrating so completely on getting Loki off he’d kinda forgotten about himself. The rhythmic clench of muscle around his dick when the Trickster came tipped him over the edge, bringing with it the sting of salt to his eyes even as his brain blanked out.

When he flickered back to consciousness he found his teeth buried again in Loki’s shoulder and the Trickster was... humming? A low, lazy, sated thrum that stopped the moment he realised Clint was aware: he huffed impatiently and pushed the archer off him. Clint went easily, boneless as he was, settling on his side.

He studied Loki’s profile in silence, noting the faint flush staining a sharp cheek, the hint of sweat at his hairline. After a moment Loki rolled over to face him. Clint was expecting a sarcastic comment if not a belittling statement or a withering look, what he got was an inscrutable expression as the god ran a thumb over his lips, exerting just enough pressure to encourage him to open his mouth. Clint let the digit past his teeth, swirling his tongue around the tip and tasting something he couldn’t quite identify. Loki smiled – an actual, god’s honest smile – that made him look, not young, but youthful. Clint idly wondered what it would be like to kiss him, to blow him. He was anticipating their next meeting already… 

The unhappy realisation that this little interlude had resolved _nothing_ about his ‘relationship’ with the Trickster made his gut tighten. Not only that, there was no ignoring the conspicuous line he’d crossed. Was he compromised? Possibly, but not so obviously as before. Fury was going to have his balls. 

He pulled his head back, enough for Loki to take the hint and remove his thumb. The wet pad lingered over Clint’s lips as it withdrew.

Clint held up his marked wrist: time to try for some damage control at least.

“I can’t have this.”  
The god of Mischief sighed.  
“No, I suppose not.”

He pulled Clint’s wrist over to his mouth, fastened his lips around the sigil and began to suckle. It was like Clint could feel the magic or whatever leaving his skin, being drawn out in a teasing, sensual twist. It was all too easy to imagine something similar happening to his cock. _Bastard!_ He stifled a groan and tried to ignore the upsurge of lust, not easy to do when Loki was looking at him like that, all smouldering and _come fuck me_.

With all of his attention focused on what the god was doing with his wrist he didn’t notice Loki’s hand brushing over his hipbone or the subtle trickle of energy, no burning ice this time, seeping invisibly in to his skin. That wasn’t to say his normal paranoia regarding Loki wasn’t active. He frowned at his unblemished wrist.

“That was suspiciously easy.”

Loki laughed and waved his hand...

  


... and Clint was suddenly in the open air, his body still relative to where he’d been - that was to say, lying on his side on a bed – but now there was only a couple of feet of empty air between him and the hard surface he inevitably smacked down on.

“ _Asshole_...” Clint muttered as he climbed to his feet.

He looked around and several things occurred to him simultaneously. First, he was on top of the Tower; second, the shredded remains of his uniform was lying in a crumpled heap beside him; third, he was still naked, half-hard and had a sizeable glob of semen spread across his stomach and chest; fourth... his team mates, _all of them_ , were pelting towards his naked, aroused, come-smeared self. 

“Asshole!” Clint yelled towards the sky, almost sure he wasn’t imagining the throaty laugh echoing faintly in his head...


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Asshole...” Clint muttered as he climbed to his feet. He looked around and several things occurred to him simultaneously. First, he was on top of the Tower; second, the shredded remains of his uniform was lying in a crumpled heap beside him; third, he was still naked, half-hard and had a sizeable glob of semen spread across his stomach and chest; fourth... his team mates, all of them, were pelting towards his naked, aroused, come-smeared self.  
> “Asshole!” Clint yelled towards the sky, almost sure he wasn’t imagining the throaty laugh echoing faintly in his head...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, finally. Sorry for the delay.

Natasha reached him first, stopping short of bowling him over. 

“ _Are you all right?_ ” She whispered, fierce and urgent, her strong fingers skimming his arms and chest, mapping the new scars on his torso.

Clint was self-consciously shielding his groin with his tattered uniform, not for Nat’s sake, she’d seen it all before, but he wasn’t so easy with the other guys yet. With his free arm he gathered Black Widow in to an awkward hug.

“I’m fine, really.” He murmured in to her hair.

Natasha let herself be comforted for a couple of seconds before pulling away. Her head tilted as she touched fingertips to his shoulder.  
“Were these from the attack?”  
Clint realised she was looking at the spot where Loki had gripped him during his first climax.  
“They’re from later.”  
Widow arched an eyebrow at him and he flushed despite his best efforts.  
“And you bruise so easily, you delicate flower.” Natasha’s tone was teasing but her eyes were serious above the half-smile. _Is there anything else I should know?_ Clint shook his head.

The rest of the team were waiting a little way off, allowing them privacy, but as soon as Natasha stepped away Thor was there, sweeping Clint up in to a full-body embrace that left him dangling in the air. 

“Hawkeye...” There was a strong undercurrent of concern in the Thunderer’s voice. “We feared you lost.”  
“I’m here, I’m back.”  
Thor released him and stood at arm’s length, leaving a broad hand on his shoulder as he scanned Clint’s face.  
“You are well?”  
That wasn’t the question he wanted ask, Clint knew, but he answered as if it was.  
“I’m good.”

Stark elbowed the god of Thunder aside.  
“Good to have you back, Legolas.” He gave Clint a brief, manly hug. “Don’t do it again. We were shitting ourselves. I’m charging the cost of dry-cleaning to you.”  
“What? You’re the billionaire, you can afford it!  
Clint was responding to Tony’s teasing tone not the raw emotion he was doing a poor job of concealing. Was that guilt…?  
“Welcome home, Clint.” Steve shook his hand. “Do you want to go inside and get some pants on?”  
“Isn’t that we usually say to you?” Hawkeye grinned at Bruce, hovering at the rear. Bruce’s answering grin was affable.  
“Yeah, stop stealing my schtick, Barton, you’ve got your own...” 

“Wow. That’s some serious damage there.”

Bruce was poking at Clint’s rent and bloody uniform spread out on the kitchen bench. Clint was sure they could’ve found somewhere else to do this: people ate of this bench, _he_ ate off this bench.

“It wasn’t a whole lot of laughs, no.” He said.  
Bruce frowned at Thor.  
“Are you sure those things aren’t dangerous?”  
Thor shrugged.  
“They’re scavengers, not true hunters. No real threat to an able-bodied man.”  
“An able-bodied Asgardian man, perhaps.” Bruce huffed. He turned to Clint. “Thor’s convinced Loki only summoned them for nuisance value.” He gestured again to the uniform. “I’m not so sure.”  
“We dispatched them easily enough though.” Natasha pointed out. “And Clint had just been thrown in to a building. He’s never at his best when that happens.”  
“Well, everyone has a weakness, Nat. I don’t function well when thrown in to a building. You can’t do crossword puzzles in Mandarin.” Hawkeye and Widow exchanged smirks, then her gaze dropped to his shoulder and she frowned, pulling aside the neck of his t-shirt.  
“Bruce, look at this. The bruises are gone.”  
Banner looked closely, as did, disconcertingly, the rest of his team mates.  
“Interesting…”  
“And those scratches have practically healed.”  
 _Scratches? Oh._  
Hawkeye could feel the incipient blush but then Natasha punched him, sharp and hard in the upper arm.  
“The hell…?! What was that for?”  
“Testing a hypothesis. And I’m still mad at you.”  
“Couldn’t you have just made me drink cinnamon coffee?” Clint scowled at her, rubbing vigorously at his arm: that had really hurt. “What hypothesis?”  
She ignored him, pushing up the sleeve of his t-shirt to inspect the already forming bruise.  
“JARVIS, can you get an image of that?” “Five minute intervals?” Bruce waited for Widow’s confirming nod before addressing the AI. “And at five minute intervals for an hour or so.”  
“Noted, Dr Banner.”  
“ _What?_ ” Clint demanded.  
“Yes, care to share your thoughts?” Steve was using the Captain America voice. You ignored that at your peril.  
“Clint had some superficial injuries that have basically healed in the quarter hour he’s been back.” Banner cast a significant look at Steve. “You heal that fast, so does Thor.” He left the implications hanging.  
“He’s got accelerated healing now?” Stark queried.  
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Natasha quirked an eyebrow at Bruce. “We could use scalpels – “  
“Wait. What? No!” Clint growled. “You are not fucking experimenting on me.”  
“I don’t think that’s necessary.” Bruce assured him, though he looked distantly thoughtful, as if pondering the plausibility of it anyway.  
“Could this be a hangover from whatever Loki did to heal Barton?” Stark jumped in. “’cause there was an awful lot of blood and… other stuff left behind, and he’s up and walking and talking now, only hours later, with less scarring than you’d expect…”  
“Loki used… magic to heal you?” Steve asked Clint.  
“Apples.” Clint lifted a shoulder. “Magic apples or something, I dunno.” He caught Thor’s frown and wondered at it.  
“I think you should have a full check-up.” Bruce said. “Scans, blood work.”  
“I guess. “ Clint sighed. “But no cutting, right? It was bad enough when you were testing the mark on my wrist.”  
“Speaking of which…” Natasha prompted. “It’s gone?”  
“Yep.” Clint held up his unblemished skin for inspection. “He removed it.” This last was directed at Thor, who nodded slowly.  
“How’d you get him to do that?” Stark wondered aloud.  
“I asked nicely.”  
“And that worked? I didn’t think he was one to let go of his toys so easily.” Tony was sceptical. “What was the trade-off?”  
“There was no trade-off.” Though Clint wasn’t sure that was strictly true. He looked at Thor. “I said I couldn’t have it, he agreed and removed it.”  
Thor looked thoughtful but didn’t comment.  
“Excuse me for interrupting,” JARVIS said. “I’ve just had a message from Colonel Fury. He’s on his way and would like to speak to Agent Barton.”  
“Who told him I was back?”  
Natasha nudged him with her shoulder.  
“Benign surveillance, remember?”  
“JARVIS, how long have I got?”  
“Approximately ten minutes, Agent Barton.”  
“Thinking of disappearing?” Bruce was only half-smiling.  
“Honestly? Yes.” He raised an eyebrow at Captain _By-the-Book’s_ frown. “I would’ve liked a little time to get my head together first.”  
“Meet him in the seminar room on your level.” Tony said. “Don’t leave the Tower. JARVIS, monitor the situation, let us know if Fury tries to remove him from the building.” Steve looked as if he was about to do say something but Tony held up a hand. “No offence, Captain, but I trust Fury as far as I could spit him. Legolas is ours, we’ll look after him.”  
“Aw, Stark, I didn’t know you cared.”  
“You’d rather be hauled off to S.H.I.E.L.D. for re-education, or whatever it is they do with agents who’ve been released from an enemy’s control?”  
Clint crossed his arms over his chest and levelled Stark a dark look.  
“Again, you mean. An agent who’s been released, again.”  
“Don’t get defensive, sweet cheeks.”  
“Why do you trust me, anyway?” And there it was, the bitterness born of his own festering uncertainty, spilling from him like acid. “Wouldn’t it be safer if I was locked away, just in case?”  
“That’s a fair point.” Tony’s eyes were bright and calculating. “Are you going to murder us in our beds, _Barton_?”  
“If I do it won’t be because I was ordered to, _Stark_.” Clint snapped.  
“ _Children_.” Bruce put himself between them. “Daddy’s on his way and we have to at least look like we’re playing nicely.”

Clint was almost ashamed at how quickly the anger had flashed through him, how quickly he’d almost given in. He still had issues, clearly. He took a deep breath, held it, then breathed out slowly. 

“Sorry.” He said to Tony. “I’m a little twitchy.”  
Stark responded with a comradely punch on the arm, almost on the exact spot where Natasha had hit him. Clint chose to assume it was accidental.  
“In answer to your question,” Tony said. “I trust you because Widow does, same as I trust her to put you down if she thinks you’re dangerous.”  
Clint knew his smile was wintry.  
“That’s actually kinda smart of you.”  
“Well I am a genius.” The comeback was automatic. “When this is over, Barton, we are going to get gloriously, mind-numbingly drunk. Agreed?”  
“Oh, hell yes, agreed.”  
JARVIS chimed in softly.  
“Agent Barton, you have six minutes before Colonel Fury arrives, and I need to take another picture of your arm, please.”  
“Sure.” Clint rolled up his sleeve. “Okay?”  
“Excellent. Thank you.”  
“JARVIS, it might be prudent not to continue documenting Clint’s, uh, bruise while he’s with Fury.” Bruce said.  
“Agreed, Dr Banner, though there should be time for one more photo before Colonel Fury arrives…”

  


Clint waited for Fury in the seminar room, lounging as casually as he could in one of the plush, probably expensive, executive chairs around the very nice, certainly expensive, executive boardroom table. It was a calculated pose, just shy of insubordinate but Fury merely raised an eyebrow before taking the chair opposite. 

The Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t say anything for what seemed like minutes but Clint was determined he wasn’t going to be the one to start the conversation.

“Your report, Agent Barton.” Fury said at last.

Clint shifted so he was sitting upright, clasped his hands in front of him on the table then mustered the blandly sincere expression he used when demonstrating his earnest honesty. Coulson had never been fooled by it, and there was no guarantee it would win over Fury but he wasn’t technically going to be lying, so… 

He started with the early morning call out to the riverside, detailing everything that had happened to him – well, almost everything – between then and being returned to the Tower.  
Fury listened in silence, then stayed silent for another little while, scrutinising Clint’s face.

“Loki removed his mark?”  
“Yessir.”  
“Was this before or after you had sex with him?”  
Clint coloured but he answered calmly enough.  
“After, sir.”  
“And you neglected to mention this because…?” Fury sighed at his agent’s silence. “You can’t possibly think that sex with him wasn’t relevant somehow, Hawkeye?”  
“No, sir, but I did consider it private.”  
Fury studied him again, concern shading irritation.  
“Do you need support through this?”  
Clint shook his head; he knew what was being asked.  
“It was consensual, sir, my choice.”  
“I’m not sure I entirely believe that.” Fury tapped his fingers on the table top. “Is it over, then? Has this itch been scratched or is he going to come back for you?”  
“I don’t know, sir.”  
“Do you want him to come back for you?”  
Clint flinched; that was... an uncomfortable question, close to the bone, one he wasn’t ready to examine yet.  
“I don’t know, sir.”  
“Can you guarantee you impartiality if he _does_ come back? I’m questioning your loyalty, Barton.”  
Clint pushed his shoulders back, sitting up straighter.  
“My loyalty is _never_ in question. Sir.”  
Fury leaned forward.  
“I don’t believe you.”  
“Then, fine!” Clint threw himself back in the chair. “If you don’t trust me, lock me up or put a bullet in my brain! Or… leave me alone to get on with my job.”  
“And what is your job, Agent Barton?”  
Clint’s smile was ironic, tired, just a twitch of his lips.  
“To do whatever you tell me to, sir.”  
“Outstanding.” It was a neutral statement, conveying neither approval or sarcasm. Fury stood up. “You’re on probation, Hawkeye. You _will_ continue the counselling sessions. You will _participate_ in the counselling sessions. The sessions will continue for as long as your psychologist deems them necessary.”  
“Yessir.” Clint didn’t sigh, or grimace. _Total waste of fucking time. He was better off talking this through with Nat..._

  


Dinner had been an extravaganza of take-out delivery. Stark had offered them anything they wanted – anything at all, food, alcohol, dancing girls, whatever - all on him. Clint was almost tempted to take him up on the dancing girls, just to see what he’d do, but contented himself with an excellent steak dinner from a nearby restaurant. And then the remains of Nat’s pasta, and the mound of BBQ ribs that were going begging, and nearly all the garlic bread, finishing off with three large helpings of various desserts. Clint was distantly surprised at how hungry he was and how much he was able to put away. It hadn’t escaped the notice of his team mates, either. 

“I’m guessing it’s got something to do with the energy required to fuel his healing.” Bruce had theorised when Steve put forward the query.  
“That, or it’s because I haven’t eaten anything since last night.” Clint countered, reaching for another bottle of beer.  
“Possibly, but even so…” Bruce indicated the empty plates and bottles piling up in front of him.  
“It doesn’t matter!” Tony slung an arm around Clint’s shoulder. “Day he’s had the man deserves to eat whatever he wants! You want more, Barton? There can be more!”

Clint grinned at him and they clinked their bottles together. He’d observed Stark over the evening, being expansive and loud and distractingly obnoxious, and had wanted to take him aside and tell him _it wasn’t his fault_ that he hadn’t got to him before Loki. None of what had happened was his fault, he didn’t need to supply a ludicrously expensive feast to make amends. He didn’t though, Stark probably wouldn’t appreciate it.

Eventually Clint had truly eaten all he could and was beginning to feel the need to wind down and sleep. He excused himself, smiled a refusal to Nat’s silent offer of company, and took himself off to his quarters. 

He was towelling his hair dry after a luxuriously long shower, and trying to determine if he really was peckish again or just imagining it when there was a knock at his door. He thought he might know who it was.

“JARVIS? Is that Thor?”  
“It is, Agent Barton.”  
“Let him in…” Clint sighed; he’d been expecting this.

When Thor handed him a generous slice of peach and apple pie, with cream, Clint discovered that yes, he could happily manage a bite or two more.

“Do you have a theory about what’s going on with me?” He asked in between mouthfuls of pastry.  
Along with his increased appetite, the bruise Nat had given him had blossomed then faded within half an hour.  
“I believe Banner has the right of it. Your body requires a lot of energy for healing.”  
“Uhuh. And the fact that this healing is taking place so rapidly?”  
Thor’s blue, blue eyes revealed his uneasiness.  
“You said that my brother gave you apples?” At Clint’s nod his fists clenched at his sides. “I am glad that you live but he should not have done that.”  
“Why?”  
“Idun’s apples. Magic, yes; eating them is what grants my people our longevity.”  
“Longevity?” Clint blinked. “Your immortality…?”  
Thor was dismissive.  
“If you like. The point is, it is forbidden to share the apples with mortals.”  
“Because we become immortal?”  
“Because the magic is potent and mortals are unsuited to it.” Thor explained gently.  
“We’re too weak for it, is that what you’re saying?”  
“ _Unsuited_.” Thor stressed. “The magic will warp your frame if not your mind.”  
That gave Clint pause.  
“What’s going to happen to me?”  
The god of Thunder considered him carefully.  
“This one time you will probably suffer no lasting harm. Indeed it appears the apples have brought you back from death, but be warned, Hawkeye, do not let Loki give you any more.”  
Clint’s eyes narrowed.  
“You don’t think he’s done with me, do you?”  
“No, I do not.” Thor’s voice was soft. “Nor you him, I think. Though I can hope your… association will benefit you both.”  
“But mostly your brother, right?” Clint snorted, denying the sudden, complicated surge of emotions. _Nor you him_ …  
“He is lost, Hawkeye.” Thor replied simply. “His need is greater.”  
There really wasn’t anything Clint could say to that; he gave it his best shot though.  
“Let’s just hope we don’t kill each other in the process.”  
Thor laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.  
“I would not like to wager on either of you.” He inclined his head. “I will leave you to your rest.” He turned to go but paused at the door. “The remains of Stark’s feast will be in the cool store, if you have need of sustenance during the night.”  
“Thanks, buddy.” Clint waved him out. “Don’t let Tony talk you in to another drinking contest, he’s in the mood for it.”  
Thor laughed again.  
“Fear not, my friend, I remember all too well the last one…”

  


Consistent with the other rooms in the Tower, the window in his bedroom took up the entire wall.  
Clint stared out over the night lit city and wondered if Loki was watching him right now. Could the spell see through the privacy coating? He sighed and leant his forehead against the glass, aware of the faint vibrations created by the action of the wind whistling around the building. Finally alone, with no handy distractions, he couldn’t put off any longer the need to start picking through the tangle of conflicting shit in his head. He really, really didn’t want to, would’ve much preferred if it all just… went away, but none of his problems had ever done that, had they? Or if they did, they’d come back at a later date, doubled in size. No, best to tackle it as soon as possible, take the ol’ mental machete to the thicket and try to carve a path through. Once he knew where he was heading, figuratively speaking, he could talk things over with Nat. Needless to say, it was unlikely his S.H.I.E.L.D. shrink would hear much of it. 

So, his cunning plan to deal with the god of Mischief seemed to have backfired somewhat. He wasn’t free of the prick yet, no matter how fervently he wished he was. He couldn’t trust that Loki wasn’t going to come back, and worse, he couldn’t deny a traitorous eagerness about it. That was the _real_ problem, wasn’t it? Despite everything the shit had put him through, Clint was… attracted and anticipating – on a very primal level, admittedly – seeing him again.  
Did he like Loki? _Nope_. Did he trust him? Definitely not, and yet there was… what? Sympathy for him? Empathy? Pity? Lust? All very dangerous, all able to be used by a master manipulator as a way in to his head. Here Clint’s fear thankfully overrode the roiling mess of distrust and desire clouding his common sense. He would not let Loki control him again, he’d slit his own throat – or trust Nat to do it – before he let that happen. 

Clint took a shaky breath and stepped back from the window. Okay, he’d managed to claw back some sort of perspective. First steps, baby steps, but this wasn’t the insurmountable problem it had appeared to be earlier. 

He thumbed the control to close the curtains then took himself off to bed…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This arc is finished but there will be more, just not straight away.  
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
